


For What You Have Tamed

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films), Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Aftercare, Anal Play, Anal Plug, Anal Sex, Angst, BDSM, Begging, Blindfolds, Caning, Caring, Cock Rings, Collars, Companionship, Conversations, Corsetry, Criminal husbands, Crossdressing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cuffs, D/s, Discipline, Dom/sub, Domesticity, Dominance, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fisting, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Fondling, Food, Hand Feeding, Hand Jobs, Humiliation, Kissing, Love, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pigeons, Possessive Behavior, Post-Coital Cuddling, Punishment, References to Homophobia, Restraints, Sex Toys, Sleeping Together, Spooning, Subdrop, Submission, Subspace, Victorian Homophobia, boot licking, references to past abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-13
Updated: 2014-05-07
Packaged: 2018-01-19 05:24:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 22
Words: 39,433
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1457191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty and Moran have sent the servants away for the weekend, leaving them free to indulge in their 'little games' together without interruption, but perhaps not everything will go entirely to plan.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from a line in The Little Prince: "You become responsible forever for what you have tamed"

   Upon awakening it takes Moran a moment or two to remember what is so special about today. Initially he feels only a strange tingle of excitement but he is unable to place its cause. He turns onto his back and glances at the still-sleeping form lying beside him in the gloom, smiling to himself as he watches Moriarty’s chest rise and fall, before at last he remembers: they are alone in the house. No housekeeper, no maids, no servants at all. Perhaps other men, those used to a pampered existence, might be daunted by this realisation (‘One must do everything for oneself? But _how_?’) but to Moran this recollection sends a thrill through him. Alone together they may indulge themselves in whatever games they desire without fear of being interrupted, terrifying the maid or being chastised by the housekeeper for making too much noise or not coming to dinner on time.

     It had been Moriarty’s idea to send the servants away for the weekend, telling them they deserved a little trip to the seaside, his treat. “It shall be our reward for seeing the Colbert plan come to fruition,” he had told Moran, who needed very little convincing indeed. “A little time to ourselves, time to play some of our _little games_ together, hmm?”

    No of course they must not worry about him and the colonel, he had explained later to the servants; they are grown men, both of them not unused to doing some menial tasks at least, and both perfectly capable of surviving for a couple of days by themselves. Moran saw the servants off at the station the previous afternoon, before returning home to change into something more suitable for fine dining out, and they had certainly dined out sumptuously.

    Upon returning home after dinner Moran had tried his best to quickly coax Moriarty into bed (or perhaps onto the tiger-skin rug before the fireplace), but the professor was having none of it. “There is no rush my boy, we have the whole weekend ahead of us,” he had reminded the colonel, and Moran, with only a small sigh of resigned amusement, had accepted this. So all that happened in bed last night was sleep but now… _now_ Moran has awakened with the sense that today something more will certainly happen, secure in his belief that Moriarty cannot possibly have wanted to send the servants away only to waste their precious time alone. After all sex may not be Moriarty’s primary concern but he certainly enjoys indulging in it regularly with Moran and given such time to themselves surely he must have something rather more _creative_ than the usual in mind.

    There is a certain amount of nervousness in Moran too, although of the undeniably erotic kind that stirs his blood. Moriarty, as he invariably does, has the upper hand here. Moriarty knows what he has in mind for their weekend; Moran does not. There are of course limits to what Moriarty could and would do to him – Moran’s faith in that knowledge has occasionally quavered but never been fully shaken. His professor would never try to cause him harm, nor would he ever inflict any act upon Moran that he had not discussed with him at least hypothetically if not in detail at some point in the past. Still… that leaves a great many things that Moriarty could decide to do to him this weekend and Moran can do no more than speculate as to what particular game the professor has in mind. Still asleep, Moriarty is giving nothing away.

   Moran decides to let him sleep a while and slips quietly from the bed. With the household staff away there are certain tasks that can safely be left until their return but there are others in need of consideration. Unless the pair wish to indulge themselves in an unpleasantly cold house, lighting the fires downstairs is most certainly something that requires attention. As he goes to retrieve his dressing gown from the hook on the door and slides the gown over his naked skin, it occurs to Moran that today he need not cover his modesty for the sake of the servants. He could parade around the whole house naked if he wished without fear of evoking any girlish shrieking or a more womanly roar of disapproval. It is rather chilly though so he wraps the dressing gown around himself and ties the cord around his waist, then pushes his feet into his slippers before going downstairs to deal with the fires.


	2. Chapter 2

   Moriarty awakens slowly, stretching himself like a cat, wholly unsurprised when his hand brushes over the other side of the bed and finds the space empty. _He has gone to tend to the fires and to breakfast_ , he thinks, the first portion of this thought being the most logical conclusion he can draw based on his knowledge of both Moran’s diligence and his intolerance for the cold, the second being rather obvious from the delicious scent of bacon wafting through the house.

   Indeed now he hears Moran’s soft tread on the stairs and the slight chink of crockery as Moran comes upstairs carrying the heavily laden breakfast tray.

    “Good morning, Sebastian,” Moriarty calls to him as Moran nudges the bedroom door open with his shoulder. He sits himself up in the bed, smoothing down his sleep-tousled hair to grant himself some measure of dignity.

    “Good morning, Professor.” Moran advances with a confident stride over towards the bed. “I thought, sir, you might enjoy breakfast in bed today.”

    “How presumptuous of you.” Moriarty flashes him a brief smile as he says this, making sure to catch Moran’s eye before the colonel drops his gaze in a gesture of submissiveness. At times the rules of their games must be explicitly stated; on other occasions they need never be spoken of aloud, the understanding being implicit between them. With Moriarty’s small smile then Moran understands how the start of this game at least will be played, and he shows his acceptance of this by bowing his head. “Did you ensure that the bacon is crisp?” Moriarty enquires as Moran sets the tray down.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Scrambled eggs?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran lifts off the cover to reveal the plates of bacon and eggs with a side of toast.

    “Hmm.” Moriarty glances from the food to Moran, casting an appraising eye over him, noticing everything, from Moran’s own ruffled hair to the way the dressing gown seems to cling to his lean form. “I notice that you felt a need to cover yourself.”

    Moran hesitates momentarily. “Yes sir.”

    “Did I give you permission to cover yourself, my dove?” Moriarty asks this in a pleasant tone, without even the merest hint of malice, not here being the dark and dangerous criminal genius but the kindly professor who will gently point out and correct his student’s mistakes.

    “No sir, you did not.” Moran cannot quite help a brief clenching of his hands and a slight upright tilt to his jaw, before he remembers his place. “Sorry sir.”

    “From now on, today and tomorrow, I expect you to wear what I instruct you to wear.” Moriarty idly begins to cut up a piece of bacon (which, he notes, is cooked perfectly, being deliciously crisp but not overdone). “If I tell you to wear a particular outfit then you shall wear it. If I tell you however to remain entirely nude then you shall remain entirely nude, do you understand me?” He gives Moran a long, meaningful look, which Moran meets briefly whilst still keeping his head bowed.

    “Yes sir.”

    “Good, then strip.”

    Moran pulls the cord round his waist undone and deftly shrugs himself out of the dressing gown, replacing it carefully back on its hook.

    “You made tea, not coffee?” Moriarty calls, half-raising an eyebrow at him. Moran, he knows, prefers coffee in the morning; he however prefers tea. Of course he can tell by both the pot and the smell that it is indeed tea and not coffee, but the question has everything to do with asserting his authority over Moran and they both know it.

    “Yes sir.”

     “Very well; you may pour us both a cup.”

    “Of course sir.” Moran returns to the bed and obediently pours tea for Moriarty first and himself second. Tea poured he makes no move however either to drink his tea or touch his own breakfast and stands there by the side of the bed, very straight and upright save for his bowed head, with his hands clasped together behind his back.

    Moriarty eyes him for a moment as he chews a mouthful of egg. As yet there is nothing particularly intense about the way he regards Moran’s naked form but still there is a certain amount of pleased possessiveness in that look. Moran’s body is his; Moran is his; this exquisite man belongs to him and to him alone, and they both know it, and that is a very pleasant thing to remember. “Get back into bed, pet, and come and eat your breakfast.” Moriarty pats the space in the bed beside him. He has briefly contemplated ordering Moran to eat his food off a plate placed on the floor, but the idea does not appeal to him overmuch at present; it is too early in the game for such an inelegant act. Later, perhaps. He would much prefer Moran’s company beside him right now.

    “Yes sir,” Moran says as he slips back into bed.

    “You have prepared the breakfast to perfection, thank you, Sebastian.” Moriarty reaches across the sheet and covers Moran’s hand with his momentarily, rubbing his thumb over Moran’s knuckles. Being the master of such a proud, bold creature as Colonel Moran is all about knowing when to wield his control; when to discipline him; when to dominate him; when to _hurt_ him, even, but also when to reward him and to care for him. However tough he may be, Moran is sensitive to praise – not mere superficial flattery but praise that is sincerely given. Having spent much of his life deprived of such things he is still not quite used to it, and Moriarty delights in the slight flush of pleasure that comes into Moran’s cheeks when offered words of commendation or congratulation.

    “Thank you sir,” he says, looking down at the bedcovers.

    “Well then, don’t let yours go to waste; eat up.” Moriarty withdraws his hand from Moran’s and turns his attention to munching on a piece of toast, although he continues to watch Moran still. Thus it is that a few minutes later, as Moran eats his final piece of bacon, Moriarty catches Moran glancing at him and seeming to smile one of his strange secretive half-smiles. “What is amusing, Sebastian?” he enquires.

    Moran swallows his mouthful of bacon and sets his plate aside. “Nothing, sir.” But he’s smiling still, more broadly now that he knows he’s caught Moriarty’s attention. “You just… you look _nice_ like this.” He dares to glance directly at the professor for a moment, leaving aside the game briefly. Moriarty looks so incredibly lovely, he thinks, so relaxed with his hair flopping loose over his forehead, without the severity of his dark suit and the hair oil; even without the less severe and more comfortable but still somewhat strict air that the clothing he wears for teaching gives him. He loves to see Moriarty like this, or to see him asleep as he was not so long ago, to see that intensely vulnerable side of him that no one else gets to see. It does not decrease his respect for Moriarty to know that he is human after all and not just some kind of calculating machine though; to the contrary it has only increased his regard for the man, drawn ever more deeply to him by the fact that there are so many different facets to him and that he is unafraid to show them all to Moran.

    Now the professor’s mouth quirks into a smile of his own. “Ah, so you are thinking that I am a soft touch now, are you, pet?”

    Moran snorts softly and looks down again, still amused though. “I know you’re not.”

    “You would do well to remember your place, my boy.” Moriarty reaches up and brushes a toast crumb from Moran’s beard.

    “Of course, sir.” Moran gives him a brief sidelong glance.

    “Do you wish to play a game with me for the rest of today, Sebastian?”

    “What sort of game, sir?” Moran asks in a mild tone, trying (although not wholly succeeding) to conceal his interest.

    Moriarty leans in a little closer to him. “Oh I think you’ll like it, pet,” he says softly, as he cups Moran’s cheek in his palm and gently turns Moran’s face towards his. “The rules are quite straightforward, really.”

    Moran swallows. “Oh?” he says, and his eyes look darker now.

    “Yes.” Moriarty leans forward and kisses Moran on the lips, briefly, chastely. “To put it succinctly…” His face remains only an inch away from Moran’s as he speaks. “I get to do whatever I wish to you all day long, and you do not get to climax until I give you permission.”

    Moran narrows his eyes slightly. “And when, if I may be so bold as to ask, _sir_ , would you give me permission for that then?”

     “Oh I would think, if you were a _very_ good boy…” Moriarty smoothes down a stray lock of Moran’s hair. “Perhaps this evening.”

     Moran laughs. “That does not sound like much fun for me.”

     “Perhaps not,” Moriarty concurs with a sly smile, “but it will provide _me_ with a great deal of amusement.”

    “I could amuse you now.” Moran half rolls over, pressing himself against Moriarty’s side, looking up at him intently. “We could do some _very_ amusing things right now, Professor.” He puts his hand on Moriarty’s chest, his touch light and warm.

    “Yes my dove, we could. Or…” Moriarty clasps Moran’s hand and lifts it to his lips, kissing his palm. “We could make things _much_ more interesting, unless you truly expect me to believe, Colonel, that you cannot go all day without spending? Is your stamina so very feeble these days, hmm, my poor lamb?”

    Moran barks out another sharp laugh. “There’s nothing wrong with my stamina, thank you.”

    “Then you should be perfectly able to last for one single, solitary day – less than a day, even.”

    Moran rolls his eyes slightly. “You make it sound _so_ simple. I know you, Professor – this ain’t gonna be simple at all.” In fact he’s sure that if he agrees to this then the professor will do his utmost to drive Moran half out of his mind with desire and desperation and the need for release. Perhaps other men would be unnerved by this thought, not intrigued by it.

    “Of course not, my dearest Moran,” Moriarty murmurs. “How dull life would be if we were only ever to indulge in the simplest of games.”

    “Well…” Moran rests his hand on Moriarty’s chest again, idly drumming his fingers there as he thinks about this. “If I agree to this, can I at least clean out the pipes before we start?”

     Moriarty chuckles at Moran’s manner of expressing himself, and he almost sounds genuinely filled with regret when he answers. “No, my dove, I’m afraid that would be cheating, and while I am fully aware that you are a consummate cheat when it comes to your card games, with me you must understand that you either play the game by my rules or not at all.”

    Moran glances away, screwing up his face in frustration momentarily, before he looks back at the professor. “So what if I decline to play?”

    “Then nothing; I am not forcing you to play. I am simply suggesting it as something that I feel that, in the end, we would both of us enjoy immensely. You enjoy serving me, don’t you?”

    “Of course, Professor.”

    “You relish submitting to me; knowing that your behaviour appeals to me, _excites_ me, even.”

    “Yes sir.” Moran starts to sound a little hoarse as he answers this time.

    “And so do you too become excited by my dominance over you.”

    “Yes sir, I do,” Moran admits, although his verbal confirmation is not strictly necessary - Moriarty can feel how Moran is beginning to grow hard against his hip. “But then surely that is part of the problem.”

    “Oh?”

    “You get me all het up and then don’t let me finish, that is a problem.”

    “Of course it isn’t,” Moriarty says, face close to Moran’s again, his voice low in Moran’s ear. “ _That_ is what will make it so… _exciting_.”

    Moran shivers at Moriarty’s words and his warm breath against his ear.

    “I will give you your release when I believe you have earned it.”

    “All right, so what if I agreed to play and then I finished without permission?”

    “Then I would have to punish you.” Moriarty smiles at him in that way that can terrify lesser men and even still has the power to make Moran shiver. “Don’t think, Sebastian, that I would inflict only a light punishment upon you. If you were to disobey me, then I _would_ make you suffer. However, I had assumed you would be able to tolerate much in this game and therefore it would not be necessary to punish you. Do you not wish to prove me correct?”

    Moran swallows thickly again as he looks away, undeniably aroused by this. No matter how much he may try to deny it at times, he loves to submit to his professor; to put his body into Moriarty’s capable hands to do what he will with; to gain his undivided attention and his praise, and Moriarty now pushes at one of his most vulnerable points – Moran’s need to prove himself worthy of Moriarty’s trust and regard in him, such a need that has led him in the past to push himself on when ill, when injured, to very nearly cause himself great harm. Moriarty knows damned well Moran cannot resist such a challenge. The difference here however is that Moriarty will retain overall control of him; as such he would not allow Moran to push himself beyond the point where he becomes a danger to himself - Moran does know that.

    “Sebastian,” Moriarty says, “do you want to play this game?”

    And so above all Moran does remember how absolute his trust in Moriarty is; how strong his conviction that Moriarty would never cause him harm is, and so perhaps it is because of that that he can answer now, “Yes sir, I do.”


	3. Chapter 3

    “Remain there, do not move,” Moriarty had said, and so Moran stays, standing in the middle of the floor, ramrod straight once more except for his chin being slightly tucked in, his right hand clasped around his left wrist behind his back. The situation seems… irrefutably erotic. He is not hard at present, he is simply naked and waiting patiently for his lover to return from wherever he has gone after going to get washed and dressed (downstairs and along the hall, Moran knows, though after that he loses track of the professor’s movements, although he has a good idea of where he’s headed). But he knows that this is the start of the game proper and that whatever Moriarty has gone to fetch it almost certainly has great bearing on what he intends to inflict upon Moran throughout the day and that Moriarty can and will push him to the very limits of his endurance. It may be some form of clothing Moriarty brings back, it may be some kind of sexual toy, it may be some form of restraint (or most likely, Moran thinks, the professor will return with all of these), but whatever it is, it is sure to make a profound impact upon Moran. Although this room is not particularly cold at present, he shivers a little again as he waits.

    “Ah, my dear Sebastian, you do look so delectable,” the professor informs him upon his return to the room.

    Moran’s back is to the door and he resists the impulse to turn around and simply look to see what Moriarty has brought with him. The professor will reveal everything to him in good time, he is certain.

    “I feel though,” Moriarty continues, moving closer towards Moran, until he is almost pressed against Moran’s bare back, “that you would look even more delicious in _this_. You may turn and look, chick.”

    Moran does, turning around to find that Moriarty holds up a corset. Moran has worn it at Moriarty’s command in the past and he hated how it constrained him, made his breaths shallow, made him feel desperately vulnerable, as if he could not properly draw breath and thus might pass out at the slightest exertion and yet, yet… hadn’t it also excited him, to have such a physical, tangible reminder of Moriarty’s control over him? One that could quite easily be concealed under his normal attire, so that out in public nobody would notice it, but he could feel all the while the corset’s tight embrace around his body, its form clinging to his flesh, shaping him as the professor has shaped him, giving him that deep thrill at knowing that while on the surface he might seem to be a normal ordinary boring man living a normal ordinary boring life, in truth he is very different indeed, and that he is owned in body and soul by the best and most captivating man he has ever known.

    “I thought, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells him now, “that we might go out for a little while, and so you might wear one or two items beneath your usual clothes. This, for one.” He dips his head, seeking and meeting Moran’s gaze to gauge his levels of resistance or acquiescence to this.

    “Right sir,” Moran says, meeting the professor’s gaze for a second or two.

    “I want you to remember, my pet, that for the next couple of days you are mine – mine to do exactly as I wish to you; mine to play with; mine to punish, if I see fit to punish you.”

    Moran pauses just for a second or two and when he speaks there is a slight catch in his voice. “Right sir.”

    “You still wish to play this game?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “ _Very_ good, pigeon. Very good.” Moriarty flashes him a brief, warm smile. “Let us put this on you then. Stand up straight.”

    So Moran stands and allows himself to be laced into the corset, not quite so tightly that he cannot breathe or move properly at all, but still tight enough to restrict him and provide him with a constant firm reminder that he is _owned_. There is an odd sort of comfort to be found from that knowledge though. As he has often found himself slipping into a more tranquil state of mind – still alert and aware, but somehow less _troubled_ by everything - when Moriarty puts a collar around his neck, the same thing begins to happen now. The professor is in control now; it is out of Moran’s hands, therefore he need not think or concern himself with anything but pleasing his master. All other decisions and worries seem suddenly inconsequential. He may be in some sense a slave to his master’s whims and to his own arcane desires, but there is a great sense of freedom to be found in such absolute submission, freed from all the other myriad concerns that trouble a man in day to day life.

    Moriarty pulls the laces just a touch tighter, making Moran emit a sharp breath, tugging in his waist a tad more, before he finally ties them.

    “Well, Moran, I do not think anyone would mistake you for a woman still.” He eyes Moran with a smirk. Indeed though Moran does have more of a waist at present, still he remains a very _masculine_ creature. “But I certainly think the corset does much to enhance your figure and posture.” He trails his fingertips over Moran’s tightly corseted sides, down then over his hips, over the bare skin there. Moran, sensitive to even the lightest touch, cannot help a slight gasp from coming from between his slightly parted lips.

    He is starting to become hard again, which seems to amuse the professor.

    “My, my, Sebastian,” he teases, shifting his hand to grasp Moran’s cock. “What is this, so eager to please me already, hmm?” He drags his fingertips up Moran’s length and Moran grits his teeth, knowing that this is far, far too soon to be getting so aroused. To further clarify this Moriarty presses himself close to whisper sharply in Moran’s ear, “Not yet, my dove,” as he gives Moran’s balls a rough, quick squeeze that makes tears spring into Moran’s eyes and leaves him panting with arousal as Moriarty withdraws. “Now…” The professor turns and retrieves the second of the items he has brought up from their secret playroom downstairs. “I think that I shall make you wear _this_ next.” There is such malicious glee in his eyes as he holds this item up for Moran’s inspection. “I feel you will look even more delicious wearing this, don’t you agree, Sebastian?”

    Moran eyes the object with a degree of wariness, because he understands immediately precisely where he is meant to wear this particular item – not on the outside but within his body. He can imagine it already, how it will tease and torment him mercilessly, providing him with near-constant inner stimulation, pleasurable yes, but there is a point at which even pleasure becomes too much to bear, when he is driven into a state of frustrated arousal from which he is permitted no respite. A few hours of that and he will be look like a thoroughly debauched mess, flushed and sweating and begging to be allowed some relief.

    He swallows thickly again and keeps his gaze on the floor as he answers hoarsely, “Yes sir.”

    “Turn around then,” Moriarty instructs. “Bend over slightly, that’s it, good boy. You may hold onto the bedstead if you wish.” Moran does so, knowing that he will need something secure to cling onto for this. “Now spread your legs a little, that’s it.”

    Moriarty moves away from him briefly but Moran does not look around, knowing he must remain straight and focused. He knows anyway where the professor is going, only towards the nightstand and then back to stand behind him. When then he feels the professor’s warm fingers spreading the oil between his buttocks it is not a surprise, although the sensations are so intense he cannot quite stop himself trying to press back, to impale himself on Moriarty’s fingers as the professor spreads the oil within him.

    “Stand still, chick,” Moriarty chides, slapping Moran’s thigh lightly with his free hand. “I do not want to have to punish you so soon.” But he relishes how Moran’s breathing has changed and how Moran’s cock hardens; how flushed Moran is starting to look also. It would be so, so easy to push Moran right to the very edge, to tip him over and make him spurt his release over the bed right now. That is not what Moriarty wants though, not yet. Moran must prove his obedience and wait for however long Moriarty dictates that he must wait for his release. So before Moran is quite at the stage of being about to come, Moriarty withdraws his fingers and gives Moran a moment or two to try to calm himself, to get his breathing under control, before he slides the thick rubber plug inside Moran.

    Moran has expected this but still he goes very still and very tense at the intrusion. Though he is well used to being penetrated – indeed he seems to actively crave such a thing these days - perhaps he had forgotten how thick and different and unyielding the plug is compared to Moriarty’s prick. It is an alien sensation, being stretched and filled with it, pleasurable, yes, as it presses against sensitive nerve endings and against his prostate, but also very nearly painful as his inner walls are made to stretch to accommodate it. Moran is panting hard again and his knuckles are white as he grips the bedstead by the time Moriarty gets the plug properly seated within him, with only the widest portion of it still visible between his buttocks.

    “Good boy, that’s it, my good boy.” Moriarty soothes him with words and gestures, his voice soft and melodic, while he rubs his knuckles between Moran’s shoulder-blades, trying to work out a little of the tension.

    “Sir, I… I don’t…” He wants to say it’s too much, that he cannot possibly endure going out with this _thing_ inside him. Moriarty has used it on him before, true, but only ever in private. The idea of being made to go out like this horrifies him. He shakes his head as he turns back to look at Moriarty, a pleading look in his eyes. “I don’t think I can do this, I can’t go out with _this_ …” His words trail off as he feels the plug shift slightly within him as he half-turns.

    “Of course you can.” Moriarty continues rubbing Moran’s back while with his other hand he strokes Moran’s hip. “My good, loyal, obedient Sebastian, of course you can.”

    “Sir, _please_ …”

    “Look at me. Sebastian, _look at me_.” Moriarty grips him by the chin and turns Moran’s face towards his, forcing him to meet his gaze. “You can do this, I know that you can.” He sees how Moran looks back at him, his instinct telling him to look away, to lower his eyes, but how he forces himself to meet the professor’s gaze for a few seconds more. Gaining Moran’s submission can often be a battle, but not a battle of wills between them – a battle between Moran’s own conflicting desires and thoughts. He wants to submit; he wants to do this, as much as it frightens him, but still there is that nagging voice in him (which, Moriarty does not doubt, sounds exactly like the voice of Augustus Moran) telling him that this is wrong, this is disgusting and unnatural; that he is weak and abhorrent if he yields to such urges. “I believe in your strength, Sebastian,” he tells him, still stroking his back. “I will not force you to do this and I would not punish you for declining, but I know that you want this and I know that you can do it for me and I will be so, _so_ proud of you if you do it. You want to make me proud of you again, don’t you?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “We will go out together and feed the pigeons in the park and you will keep that plug inside you the whole time we are out. You will have your overcoat fastened over your clothes, nobody will know what you have inside you or see what effect it is having on you. Only you and I, Sebastian, will know.” Now he brushes a strand of hair off Moran’s forehead. “Doesn’t that thought excite you, pet? It certainly excites me.”

    “Yes sir,” Moran whispers.

    “You may give me a word now, my dove, a simple word, and we shall end this game right now and we shall find some other way to amuse ourselves today, and tomorrow, and I would absolutely _not_ hold your withdrawal from the game against you, I give you my word on that.” Moriarty presses his face close to Moran’s, so close that now Moran is unable to meet his gaze, which seems to comfort him somewhat. “However, wouldn’t you rather make the most of this time we have alone, and play the game?” He feels Moran trembling against him. Perhaps part of it is nervousness, but Moriarty is absolutely certain that it is also with barely contained excitement. “Don’t you think that we can get so much more pleasure out of this particular game than from anything else we might decide to do, hmm?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran’s voice is still a pained whisper, but there is no doubt in the minds of either of them now: he is not going to say that word that will put a stop to this; he will acquiesce to his master’s and his own desires both and continue with the game. It is therefore almost entirely pointless for Moriarty to ask him:

    “Well then, are you going to proceed?” But he asks anyway, for the sake of fairness.

    “Yes sir, I am.”

    “My good boy.” Moriarty draws him into a kiss, dipping his tongue into Moran’s mouth very briefly, before withdrawing. “Well then,” he says, and picks up something else from off the chair beside the door. “I would like you then to put these on.”

    “Sir?” Moran says, staring at the item in Moriarty’s hand. They are undergarments, but more specifically they would seem to be _ladies'_ undergarments, something that will certainly hide his modesty, but they are made of pale blue silk and trimmed with ribbons and lace. The very idea of putting them on strikes Moran as utterly absurd.

    Moriarty laughs. “You already have a corset on and a plug up your _arse_.” His choice on this last word is most deliberately calculated and emphasised to go directly to Moran’s cock; he knows full well that when he uses such coarse language in his refined and cultured voice that it excites Moran. “Surely you will not baulk at wearing these?”

   Moran hesitates a moment, considering this. It is the professor asking this of him, and nobody else. If anyone else tried to get him to do this Moran would very firmly invite them to go fuck themselves but the professor wants this, he wants Moran to do this for them, as another secret act between the pair of them and them alone. It will thrill Moriarty to have Moran’s obedience and to know that under his sensible men’s clothing that Moran is wearing undergarments intended for a lady (or, more likely, for a _tart_ ), and that he is wearing them because he told him to do so. Nobody else will see this; nobody else will know.

    “No sir, of course not.” Moran drops his gaze once more and takes the silk bloomers from Moriarty without a word more. He steps into them, feeling the cool silk brushing against his thighs, then over his genitals. He must admit that the silk feels wonderful as it slides over his cock, and he wonders how much further this garment will add to his exquisite torment throughout the day.

    “Wonderful.” With the silk drawers in place, Moriarty turns Moran around to admire him from a different angle. “Yes, very nice, Moran. Now, I want you to go and put on your usual clothes so that we may go out for a little jaunt.”

    “Right sir.”

    “And absolutely no touching yourself. I am trusting you, Sebastian, to do as I bid you. Do not let me down.”

    Moran, despite his unease about the prospect of going out in public like this, gives a sharp upward tilt to his head here. Still the merest suggestion that he might let his professor down strikes to his core, and he eyes Moriarty directly. “I won’t, sir,” he says fiercely.

    “Very good.” Moriarty waves him away dismissively. “Now, go and get dressed.”


	4. Chapter 4

   The cab ride to Regent’s Park is a relatively short one but to Moran it seems to go on for hours. Properly dressed in his usual suit with his hair neatly oiled beneath his hat, he sits with his overcoat pulled around him and fidgets for the entire journey. Each tiny jolt of the four-wheeler seems to be amplified ten times over by the plug inside him, making him agonisingly and precisely aware of each loose stone, pothole and puddle they pass over and sending near-constant waves of pleasure through his body. If he and Moriarty were alone together and he was simply allowed to ride these pleasurable sensations to their logical conclusion this could be most enjoyable. But they are in a cab being driven through a public place, on their way to the park to feed Moriarty’s beloved _flying rats_ ; Moran is not to be granted relief any time soon and he knows that if he should achieve release even purely by accident then the professor will take great delight in punishing him for that, and so this has become a form of torture of a peculiarly erotic kind.

    “Do stop fidgeting, Sebastian,” Moriarty chides, although with no expectation at all that Moran will sit still. He says this merely to remind Moran of the authority he wields over him.

    “Sorry sir.” Moran does try to sit still for ten seconds or so, trying to clench his buttocks and press his knees together to see if this ameliorates his inner torment somewhat, but then the cab seems to go over a particularly nasty hole in the road and he lets out a sharp cry as the plug jolts within him. “Oh _god_.” He grips the edge of the seat tightly and knows his knuckles must be white again with tension inside his gloves.

    Moriarty runs his tongue over his lower lip as he watches Moran, monitoring, observing and recording all of his reactions, from the flush in his cheeks to the dilation of his pupils to the telltale bulge in his trousers visible when his overcoat falls half open.

    “You can concede the game to me, if you wish, you know,” he says.

    Moran glares at him. “No, sir.”

    “If you are so absolutely desperate for release already, I will grant you that – I will give you my permission for you to touch yourself and bring yourself to climax early. I would of course have to punish you _most severely_ afterwards, but…” Moriarty’s grin suggests that the idea of punishing Moran is a most intriguing one to him, and would not be much less welcome than continuing to play the game to its proper conclusion.

    “No, Professor, I’m all right.” Moran crosses one leg over the other but when this causes a new and most _sensual_ kind of friction as the silk of his drawers pulls tight over his growing arousal he changes his mind about this and sets both feet back on the floor of the cab. He has no intention of yielding at such an early stage, proving himself to be so weak-willed and unable to bear a little discomfort. It’s a matter of principle now.

    Although when the cab jolts again and he lets out a pained, strangled cry of pleasure/pain he almost reconsiders this, he almost thinks that throwing himself at Moriarty’s feet and begging to be allowed to come there and then and to let Moriarty punish him afterwards is a good idea, even though he knows that today any punishment Moriarty might inflict on him would indeed be most severe.

   He bites his bottom lip hard and tries to let his breath out slowly through his nose, trying to calm himself and to will away his erection. Moriarty leans back in the cab, perfectly comfortable, and smiles with a little less malice now. The thought of punishing Moran is certainly an appealing one but he does not wish for Moran to fail.

    “Good boy,” he says, and pats Moran’s knee encouragingly as the cab pulls up at their destination.

  

   By the time they get into the park Moran has checked himself five times already to make sure his coat is buttoned fully and is adequately concealing his physical state. The notion that he is almost certainly already leaking fluid into his underthings as a result of his internal stimulation rather horrifies him, in case this may show through his other clothing sooner or later.

    As Moran dawdles, afraid to walk any faster for fear of shifting the plug about too much, Moriarty links his arm through Moran’s and draws him close. “Nobody can see your arousal, Moran, I promise you,” he says in a low tone. When Moran half-raises his eyes briefly he smiles reassuringly. “Remember, pigeon, this is between _us_ ; I am hardly going to make you do anything that would advertise our _wicked, sinful_ , _highly illegal_ ways to the world, now am I?”

    “No sir, of course not.” Moran tries to take some comfort from these words, because he knows they are perfectly true. There are risks, and then there are unacceptable risks. Of course venturing out in public with women’s clothing on and the plug shoved up his arse giving him a raging cockstand is a risk, but his regular clothing and overcoat does conceal this from the world. Therefore it is not an _unacceptable_ risk, so long as Moran does not do something foolish like get himself knocked down by a cab and have to be taken to hospital or else give himself away by the constant blush in his cheeks. He half suspects everyone who so much as glances at him must be thinking the worst of him, thinking that he must be very depraved indeed, as if they can somehow tell he has a foreign object inserted somewhere they would never even dream it was possible to insert such a thing just by looking at his face. He reminds himself that in reality nobody cares, nobody is staring at him, nobody is even noticing him never mind thinking ill of him. As far as everyone else is concerned they are merely two gentleman friends taking a stroll in the park.

    “Come on, pet.” Moriarty gently tugs on Moran’s arm, leading him on, and Moran is forced to shuffle after him.

    It is a great relief to reach an empty bench and to sit. The plug still troubles Moran with its solidity and fullness but at least the park bench does not jolt and vibrate as the cab did, and also the pigeons that begin to gather around them when they discern that Moriarty has a paper bag filled with breadcrumbs in his coat pocket could not care less about what Moran has up his arse or on under his suit. For perhaps the first and only time in his life, Moran actually feels gratitude towards the beady-eyed little creatures as they flap and scuttle and peck around his feet. At least worrying about keeping the things from flapping too close to his face distracts him a little from his arousal and the growing flock of pigeons around them also helps to keep other people at a distance. Even in this state too Moran can find something pleasant in watching Moriarty feed the pigeons. It is something that once he would never have expected the professor to indulge in, but such an act proves that Moriarty is far more complex and multifaceted than he might seem, and despite Moran’s own dislike of birds, it forms an integral part of the professor’s appeal to the colonel.

    The professor has removed his gloves to dish out the breadcrumbs and Moran’s gaze falls on Moriarty’s strong, smooth, well-manicured hands before shifting to Moriarty’s face, watching how he smiles slightly and clucks and coos at the birds as he throws down the crumbs. He is precise and methodical about how he dishes them out, trying to ensure that every pigeon gets a share and that none are left out.

    “Professor,” Moran says softly, and for a few seconds he forgets about his discomfort and how desperately he wants release. For this moment he wants nothing more than to be able to press tightly against the professor’s side, to rest his head on Moriarty’s shoulder perhaps, to nuzzle close to him in this most public of places and to fully share this act with him, society’s laws and rules and taboos be damned, and it’s not fair that he cannot do so. It’s _not fair_. Moran knows he’s a criminal, he’s a bad man, he’s cheated, he’s stolen, he’s killed people (and not just in war, where he was encouraged to kill and even given medals sometimes when he did so). He’s not without morals, he knows what’s right and wrong, it is simply that what society says is right and wrong does not always necessarily align with what he and the professor deem right or wrong, and fair enough he understands that killing people, stealing even, may be wrong, but that their intimate relationship should also be deemed wrong, _illegal_ , a sign of some kind of sickness even… that disgusts him. How can consensual acts between two grown men be so wrong? How can _love_ be so wrong? They _have_ hurt people with their past actions, he is not oblivious to that fact, but not with _those_ actions.

    “Shhh, Sebastian.” Moriarty feels Moran tense beside him, Moran’s grip tightening suddenly upon his arm, and he knows when he looks at Moran’s face the sudden cause of his lover’s agitation. He knows from past experience that their inability to express their regard for each other openly vexes Moran and makes him so, so angry at how society could even dare to judge them when that society is riddled with corruption, filled with men who think it perfectly right to take one’s conjugal rights by force, or to betray their wives and take a mistress, or to get the servants in the family way and then throw them out on the streets without a penny and with their reputation forever tarnished, or to fuck children. This was part of what drew Moriarty to Moran and vice-versa – both of them see society for what it is: a sham state full of hypocrisy and double-standards and cruelty, and thus they live by their own rules. Still though it cannot fail to grate upon both of them, even the generally more composed and contained Moriarty, that they must behave _appropriately_ in public, and so he does understand Moran’s frustration here. Even he wishes at times that he could simply seize hold of Moran and kiss him passionately upon the mouth without fear of reprisal, but to be mocked and insulted would be one thing; to end up being arrested for sodomy and thrown in gaol would be quite another. If the pair of them ever end up arrested he certainly hopes it shall be for something far worse than their private regard for each other. “It’s all right,” he says softly.

     “It’s not all right though, is it?” Moran says. “That couple over there…” He nods towards a young couple taking a stroll. “People look at ‘em and think ‘how sweet’. A man and a woman, how nice, how fitting. I mean of course many’d be shocked and appalled if they started kissing and fondling and that in public but… it ain’t the same, is it? They could marry; they could _fuck_ without people condemning them for it.”

    “And you want me to marry you, do you?” Moriarty asks, with a smile.

    Moran blushes deeply and turns his face away. “I don’t mean that,” he says quickly, the words spilling out in a rush. “I just mean… it’s not _fair_.”

    “Much of life is not fair, Moran, but we must simply make the best of it.” Moriarty shakes out the last few crumbs from the bag and then neatly folds it up, before patting Moran’s knee again. “And we can still have much enjoyment from that, can’t we?”

    “Yes, of course, it’s just… I don’t know, sir, it’s just not fair, is all.” Moran gazes off into the distance, watching a squirrel cross the grass and scurry up a tree trunk.

    Moriarty slips the paper bag back into his pocket. “We’ll take a walk for a few minutes, I think,” he tells Moran, wanting to shift Moran’s attention back onto the game. His lover is peculiarly sensitive in some regards but it will not do to allow Moran to sink into maudlin thoughts when their time together this weekend is so precious. “A nice brisk stroll will do you good.” He pulls his gloves back on.

    Moran drags his attention off the squirrel and laughs bitterly. “Depends on your notion of ‘good’, sir.”

    “Yes, it does rather, doesn’t it?” Moriarty smirks as he tugs Moran to his feet. “Come along then.”

    “Not too fast, please sir.” Moran looks down to make sure once again his coat is still fastened. “Please, Professor.”

    “Come along.”

    Moran is obliged to trot after him, cursing under his breath as the movement stimulates him anew.

    “Language, Colonel,” Moriarty chides with a smile. “We are in public now, remember?”

    “Bastard,” Moran hisses at him.

    Their stroll around the park is mercifully not as lengthy as Moran feared it might be but still every step feels like torture. By the time they have finished he is sure he must look as if he has run several miles, his face crimson, his breath panting. The corset too is hardly helping matters, forcing him to breathe more shallowly. In contrast Moriarty looks perfectly composed.

    “Are you quite all right Colonel?” he enquires pleasantly. “You do look rather flushed.”

    “Fine, sir,” Moran pants.

    “Perhaps you should sit for a minute or two. We don’t want you to fall into a faint, after all, although it would be most flattering to think that you are swooning over me.”

    “I’m fine sir.”

    “Sit, Moran.” Moriarty sits down on the nearest bench and pats the space beside him. “Compose yourself.”

    “I’d be perfectly composed if you hadn’t shoved this-” Moran breaks off abruptly as the young couple from earlier stroll into earshot.

    Moriarty tips his hat at the pair as they walk past. “Good morning,” he calls to them.

    “Good morning,” they call back, the young lady seeming to give Moran a curious glance as they pass.

    Moran immediately drops his head, his face flushed with embarrassment. She can’t possibly know, he tells himself, she can’t, and if anything her glance was more one of admiration than condemnation or distaste, but it’s still mortifying.

   “It is still not too late to concede defeat,” the professor informs him when the couple have passed safely by. He looks straight ahead as he says this.

    “No!” Moran snarls.

    A smile flits across Moriarty’s features. “I thought I knew my Sebastian.” And despite everything, despite his embarrassment, his unease, his discomfort, his anger, even, Moran grins.


	5. Chapter 5

   The journey home creates just as much torment for Moran as the ride to the park. His prick feels so sensitive in his aroused state that even the smooth slide of the silk drawers over it borders on too much, and while it does nothing directly to contribute to his predicament _downstairs_ , the corset is beginning to chafe at his nerves too.

    Moriarty regards his companion sitting there in the growler looking so sullen and miserable, trying his hardest to counteract all the little jolts of the cab, and he does briefly feel a pang of something close to pity. Moran is so desperate to please him and to prove his worth that he will endure so much suffering. Moriarty is well aware though of the risks inherent in this – that Moran could easily allow himself to be pushed too far in his desperation to make his master proud of him, stubbornly refusing to end the game prematurely even when he is well past the point of gaining pleasure from it. He therefore remains cognisant of his own responsibilities towards Moran, knowing that he must always remain alert for the subtler signs that Moran is deeply unhappy with the situation and does not truly wish to continue. So he scrutinises Moran’s face, his posture, the tension running through him, searching for any indication of a deeper unhappiness, but he does not find it. Moran is uncomfortable and frustrated and rather resentful, yes, but still undeniably… _interested_.

    To test this Moriarty beckons him closer suddenly, pulling Moran half onto his lap. In the cab with the blinds down they have a little brief moment of privacy, not enough for anything extreme (and certainly not the space for anything extreme either), but then Moriarty has nothing particularly dramatic in mind, though his intentions confuse Moran somewhat still.

    “Sir?”

    Moriarty slips his gloved hand around Moran’s head and draws him into a kiss, first just brushing his lips against Moran’s, then when Moran grasps that Moriarty wants to kiss, nothing more sinister, and relaxes into it, he opens his mouth a little. It is only some seconds into the kiss, when Moran is kissing him back eagerly and their tongues are pressing together that Moran realises the folly of this. Moran _loves_ to kiss deeply and passionately, no longer assuming that kissing is only merely a prelude to sex, but when he is permitted to kiss the professor with greater passion than is usual in much of their affectionate kissing it seems to go straight from his lips and tongue and down to his cock.

    “Professor, please, I…” He has to pull back, steadying himself by clutching Moriarty’s shoulder. Any more of the deep, slightly rough kissing and he’s going to climax in his drawers even before the end of the journey. He sits back down beside the professor, wincing slightly as this causes the plug to press harder within him again. He is breathing hard, his breaths sounding rather shaky, and it’s a struggle to try to regain control.

    “My poor pigeon.” Moriarty chuckles as he slides his gloved hand beneath Moran’s overcoat and briefly caresses the front of his trousers, eliciting a low groan of pained pleasure from him. Moran is so hard, so needy, so desperate for him. The sight of him sitting there, flushed and with his pupils dilated and his breath coming in pained gasps; feeling that hardness beneath his hand, and the way in which Moran cannot quite keep from bucking his hips and thrusting against the professor’s touch is beginning to have a powerful physical effect on even the usually extremely stoic Moriarty. He is slightly tempted, the instant they get back to the house, to throw Moran down, pull that plug out of him and simply just fuck him into submission.

    But, no. He has set things up for something different and he will not change that plan now. He withdraws his hand (much to Moran’s simultaneous relief and disappointment), sits back in his seat and closes his eyes, breathing slowly and steadily to try to compose himself, and has much greater success with this than Moran does.

    By the time they get back to the house Moran’s erection has subsided somewhat but he is still walking awkwardly and stiffly due to the combined effects of the plug, drawers and corset.

    “Please, Professor,” he says as soon as the door is closed behind them. “Please may I take the plug out now?”

    Moriarty purses his lips as he gives this a moment’s thought. “Not yet.”

    “ _Please_ sir.” Moran’s voice is unusually high and desperate, and Moriarty studies him for a moment before declining his request for a second time.

    “No, my dove, I said not yet. First I think a cup of tea would be in order.”

    Moran can’t contain a sharp laugh, tea being the very last thing on his mind at present. “You want bloody _tea_ now?”

    “ _Just_ tea, thank you.” Moriarty gives him an irritatingly beatific smile, and Moran smacks his palm furiously against the wall, simultaneously disbelieving and amused by Moriarty’s behaviour, extremely tempted to hit him instead perhaps, but of course he won’t. “And don’t take your frustrations out on the walls please.” Moriarty raises an eyebrow at him in warning. “Go and make the tea, pet.”

    Moran runs both hands through his hair, tousling it up again. “Right, Professor.”

    “After that,” Moriarty says in a mild tone, “we shall discuss your punishment.”

    Moran, just about to head off to the kitchen, stops and stares. “My punishment? But I haven’t…”

    “Not for that, for the way you were regarding the young lady in the park, or perhaps it was the young gentleman.” With Moran, Moriarty cannot always be entirely sure which sex he is eyeing up when both men and women are present (perhaps on occasion it has even been both).

    “I wasn’t looking at either of them,” Moran says sharply. “I mean, well I _was_ but not like you’re implying.”

    “Do you think me a fool, Sebastian? Or blind, perhaps?” Moriarty takes a step towards him, edging him back against the wall.

    “No sir.”

    “Such looks do not go unnoticed, and I may tolerate your urge to stray on other occasions but not today, not when I have informed you that you are mine to do whatever I wish to.” Moriarty grips a handful of Moran’s mussed hair in his fist and tugs his head back, tilting his chin, forcing Moran to look him directly in the face. “And you _are_ mine, Sebastian.”

    Moran bites his lip again, realising that this is all part of the game – that Moriarty doesn’t truly believe that he’d ever even give a truly longing look to anyone else, never mind stray elsewhere; that this is only said in play. Still it riles him to be accused of something he is sure is untrue. Yes he looked at the couple and noted they were both rather young and attractive, but that doesn’t mean anything, does it?

    But then perhaps the professor is right; perhaps he should not have paid them that much attention, enough to judge their attractiveness at least, not when he is the professor’s now.

    “What… What punishment did you have in mind, sir?” he asks.

     “I thought perhaps, say… ten strokes of the cane across your backside. Nothing too severe.” Moriarty’s tone is still perfectly mild; the way he looks at Moran is detached, almost indifferent. He releases his hold on Moran’s hair. “Would you think that fair?”

    Moran looks at his feet and tries to ignore how his cock seems to twitch at the thought of being caned, but that is rather difficult to do. Moran has never enjoyed pure pain; to inflict real agony upon him with nothing pleasant to counter that would surely only quell his desire, not enhance it, but to have a degree of pain mingled in with his pleasure, with the professor’s mixed dominance and tenderness, _that_ excites him, and so even some of his so-called punishments can be a source of great satisfaction. Also too he knows that when he has done something truly bad, he _wants_ to be punished; he wants to know that Moriarty cares enough to discipline him for his mistakes; he wants to make the professor proud of him again for taking his punishment after he has let him down. That often is the only way Moran can forgive himself and move on. This particular punishment is to be done more in play than because either of them genuinely believes that Moran has made some grave error, but still there is that need within him to take his caning and make his lover proud of him once again.

    “Yes sir,” he says. “I think that would be fair.”

    “Good. We shall see to that after you make some tea then.”

    “Of course sir.”

    Dutifully Moran goes to make the tea, still in great physical discomfort, though at least while he is standing to fetch the cups and other necessary items and waiting for the water to boil then there is less direct pressure inside him from the plug. Still, it is immensely tempting to, well, maybe not touch himself, but perhaps if he were to rub himself against the edge of the table and create just the right amount of friction he could-

     _No._ He steps back at once, disgusted by the mere thought of disobeying the professor and losing the game. He’s stronger than that. With a long, shaky sigh he turns back to pick up the teacups with a slightly unsteady hand.

    He wonders if he is meant to provide food with the tea, despite the professor not giving instructions about this, which leaves him to ponder whether he should take the initiative and make some sandwiches and see what they have in the way of biscuits or cake or whether Moriarty will decide to punish him for not obeying his instructions to the letter.

     _Fuck it_ , he thinks after drumming his fingers on the table as he considers this dilemma. Customarily if they take tea together in the late morning or early afternoon then Moriarty likes to have some sandwiches and cake with the tea itself. He searches out the bread and other necessities and sets about making some sandwiches, not as neat and dainty as the ones usually provided by their housekeeper, but edible. _If the professor doesn’t like it_ , he thinks, _well then, he can just bloody well cane me for that too._

    In the event though, when Moran takes the tea tray into the sitting room, Moriarty regards the offerings with satisfaction. “Ah, you made sandwiches, excellent.”

    “We’re out of cake though, sorry.” Moran sets the tray down very carefully on the small table. Although in the absence of the live-in servants to purchase or prepare supplies they have arranged for various foodstuffs, such as fresh bread, to be brought to them by a young lad who does occasional odd jobs for them, there was no cake to be found in the pantry and Moran, even if his baking skills were not nearly non-existent, could hardly rustle one up at such short notice. “There’s biscuits, though.”

    “That will do very nicely, thank you Moran.” Moriarty helps himself to one of the sandwiches while Moran pours the tea for them both. “Sit down, Moran.”

    “I’d rather stand, sir.”

    “I said sit down.” Moriarty’s tone is calm and quiet but so very firm that Moran’s instinct is to immediately obey.

    Very gingerly he lowers himself onto the sofa and wriggles a bit, trying to find a position that is slightly more tolerable than the rest. Once seated in a way that provides the least discomfort, he begins tapping his fingers upon his knees.

    “Won’t you eat something?” Moriarty enquires after eating a ham sandwich. He has watched Moran all the while he has carefully chewed and swallowed his sandwich, noting his deep frustration and inability to sit still. The colonel is very close to breaking point now, and it would be very cruel indeed to make him suffer for very much longer, or at least, it would be very cruel indeed to make him suffer for very much longer _in this particular way_.

    “I’m not hungry.” Moran is far too tense, far too uncomfortable, far too _everything_ to eat, although he does seize his teacup between both hands and sip at the hot tea, seeming not to care that it very nearly scalds his throat.

    “You must keep your strength up, pet.” Moriarty regards Moran with stern benevolence until Moran sighs and sets his empty cup down.

    “Right sir.” He takes one of the sandwiches and eats it under Moriarty’s watchful eye. When it has gone he resumes drumming his fingers on his knees.

    “Stop that, Sebastian.”

    “Sorry sir.”

    Moriarty cannot quite keep back a small fond smile as he eats another ham sandwich. It is not just sexual frustration at play here with Moran, although of course with that particular toy inside him it _is_ a very significant part, but also simply just the fact that Moran cannot bear idleness. This weekend was meant to provide some rest and relaxation and enjoyment for both of them but Moriarty could not help but fear that perhaps Moran would not cope well with doing very little. Whenever he has been forced into a state of idleness by illness or injury or inclement weather then he has reacted much like this, with such intense frustration, an inability to lie or sit still or remain where he is meant to be, and endless fidgeting. Over time Moriarty has tried to teach Moran that it is perfectly all right, when they do not have more pressing concerns, to relax; to take time to enjoy himself; to do very little. Still though this is a lesson that has not fully sunk into Moran yet, but Moriarty is extremely persistent. He is certain that sooner or later he will succeed with Moran, and perverse as it may seem, having Moran behave submissively towards him in private is a significant part of that. Moran needs, indeed craves, structure and control in his life to function at his best, even though he is perfectly capable of thinking and acting for himself, and Moriarty is happy to provide that. Things are never as straightforward as him simply ordering Moran to sit still and relax – Moran might sit but he will still fret and fidget – but Moriarty remains hopeful that over time, with care and consideration and the right degree of firmness then Moran will learn fully that he is allowed to relax sometimes; that to be idle from time to time is not a sign of weakness, any more than his submission is a sign of weakness.

    He makes Moran wait still while he eats another sandwich and a biscuit and drinks his tea, before he stands up. Immediately Moran also stands, then looks shamefaced about it as he wonders if Moriarty wanted him to remain seated.

    “Take the tea tray back to the kitchen, and then go to our bedroom,” Moriarty commands him. “Once there you are to remove your normal clothes, but leave the corset and the drawers on, and then stand and wait for me.”

    “Right sir.” Moran moves to gather up the tea things.

    “And Moran, no touching yourself, and no attempting to remove the plug.”

    “Of course, sir.” He does as he has been bid, aware that Moriarty is watching him as he leaves the room, probably observing how awkwardly Moran is walking still and inwardly gloating to himself about this, no doubt.


	6. Chapter 6

   It is still warm enough in their bedroom although the fire in there is out. Moran briefly debates whether to relight it but decides it is best to wait to ask the professor about that. He strips slowly, carefully, deliberately trying to take care and time over it because he knows that if he rushes then he’ll be even more tempted to give his cock a few strokes and finish himself off, and also that a few careless brushes of clothing over his arousal might even be sufficient to bring him off in his drawers. So he removes each item steadily, trying to minimise the contact with his prick.  Once removed he neatly folds the clothing and sets each item aside on the chair with his boots beneath, knowing that the professor prefers him to be neat and orderly about such things. He looks down at his drawers, with a rather obvious bulge in them, and a darker stain on the fabric. He hasn’t climaxed yet but with so much internal stimulation he can hardly help some fluid leaking out and he wonders why he’s so ashamed about this. But there is nothing he can do about it, he cannot wash the marks out before Moriarty returns and nor can he conceal them. If he tries to stand in a way that hides the mark somewhat then Moriarty will only mock him for that.

    All he can do now is wait for Moriarty to come up and deliver his punishment and, he hopes, sometime after that also his reward. He stands on the rug, feet planted slightly apart, hands clasped together behind his back, and he waits, and he waits. There is no real reason, he is certain, for Moriarty to keep him waiting this long except that he is clearly testing and tormenting him further.

    When Moriarty finally comes up the stairs Moran tries very hard to rearrange his face into a neutral expression and keep the look of sheer desperation off it, but perhaps he doesn’t quite manage it.

    “Ah, my dove, you have stripped I see, very good.” Moriarty saunters into the room carrying a metal box with a lid, which no doubt contains the various toys he is planning to use on Moran this afternoon. He sets this down on the bed before glancing around the room a little. “It is growing a little chilly in here, do you not think? Perhaps if you were to light the fire.” He presses against Moran from behind momentarily and Moran feels the comparative coarseness of the fabric of the professor’s trousers against the backs of his thighs, and one of Moriarty’s strong, smooth hands skating down over his hip. “We wouldn’t want you to catch cold.” He gives Moran’s bottom a pat and Moran hisses sharply as even this fairly light touch sends a dizzying wave of pleasure through him from the plug. “Go on then, light the fire.”

    “Yes sir.” He grits his teeth again and gets on with it, dirtying his hands in the process but managing to resist the urge to wipe them on his drawers. It is not as if the pale blue silk is pristine any more, but he’s determined not to give Moriarty any other excuse to cane him further.

    While Moran lights the fire Moriarty removes some of his own clothing, his jacket, tie, collar and cuffs, and his boots. Like Moran he sets these items aside neatly.

    “I thought that we would dine tonight about seven O’clock,” he tells Moran as he hangs up his jacket in the wardrobe. “Our food will be delivered a little before then, so that leaves us plenty of time to indulge ourselves.”

    “Plenty of time for you to torment me, you mean, _sir_ ,” Moran says, glancing over his shoulder.

    Moriarty arches an eyebrow at him. “You dare to answer me back, pet?” There is amusement though, not malice, in his tone.

    “Sorry sir.” Moran turns his attention back to the hearth.

    “Ah now that is much better,” Moriarty tells him when the fire is going well, standing over Moran and putting a hand on his shoulder briefly. “Nice and toasty, hmm?” He helps Moran to his feet. “You had best go and wash your hands now, but be sure to return promptly.”

    “Yes sir.”

    While Moran briefly goes to wash off the smudges of soot, Moriarty turns his attention to the contents of the metal box. There is nothing in there that should alarm Moran _too_ much, he thinks. In fact for the act he has planned for the denouement of their game today he will require no fancy toys at all, though perhaps some form of restraint may be in order. He has found that frequently physically restraining Moran in some way helps to keep him calm and stops him from spiralling into panic, because it takes most of the decisions entirely out of his hands. Of course if he is ever truly unwilling or desperately frightened he has the power to end the game at once – that is one of the unbending rules of their little diversions by which both of them will always abide – but other than that he puts himself and the choices about what is to be done to him entirely in Moriarty's hands (and very capable hands they are, the professor thinks to himself).

    He hums softly as he sorts through the various toys and tools now, selecting the cane first. It is a fairly thin and flexible one, one that properly applied will sting and leave a satisfying red weal on Moran’s skin but should not cut or permanently mark him. Ten strokes of that will be sufficient to remind Moran of his proper place without causing him undue suffering. He has taken much worse in the past but today Moriarty does not wish to overload his lover with too many painful sensations – ultimately he does intend for this game to be fully satisfying for both of them.

    As he hears Moran’s soft, barefooted tread returning to the room though he puts the cane down and selects a different item.

    “Close your eyes, pet,” he commands softly as Moran re-enters the room.

    There is a very brief instant where Moran’s gaze meets his questioningly, _almost_ afraid, before he obeys. Moriarty then gently guides him further into the room, directing him to stand on the rug, before he places the length of soft black fabric over Moran’s eyes and ties it securely behind his head. As soon as the blindfold is in place, properly cutting off his sense of sight, Moran’s demeanour changes – it is subtle, but Moriarty knows to look for it. He tenses briefly, then his shoulders slump very slightly and his head tips forward a little. He is submitting further, further relinquishing his control to his master, accepting that Moriarty has not only the power but the _right_ to cut off all of his senses if he wishes to. He is still coiled up with nervous tension, but is more anticipating what Moriarty is going to do rather than fearing it or trying to fight against it.

    Moriarty rubs Moran’s hip soothingly for a few seconds, well aware that Moran can be extremely tactile anyway during their more intimate endeavours, and in particular that when any of his other senses are cut off that Moran needs something to balance that out to keep him grounded and to prevent him from becoming too spooked. With his sight obscured then touch becomes more important, and though he flinches slightly at the initial contact he soon leans into the caress. Moriarty indulges him for a few seconds before drawing his hand away.

    “Well, Sebastian.” He moves around in front of Moran and looks down at the silk drawers, in particular at the stain on them. “You do seem to have been _extremely_ excited by everything that we have done so far, don’t you?”

    “Yes sir.”

    Moriarty places his hand over the bulge in the drawers, slowly massaging Moran’s length through the thin fabric.

    “Sir…” Moran shudders and bites his lip again almost hard enough to draw blood as he visibly struggles not to buck against the touch, knowing full well that he is not yet permitted to climax. “Please, please, stop, please.”

    “How wet you are, chick. How positively _indecent_.” Moriarty does at last withdraw his hand before Moran is quite too far gone, leaving the colonel panting and achingly aroused, his legs trembling. If he could see he would also notice perhaps that the stain on his drawers is now even larger. “Perhaps I should punish you for that too, hmm?” Moriarty chuckles softly before brushing Moran’s cheek with his fingers. “No, pigeon, I won’t do that, because it pleases me to see how excited you are; how wet and needy and desperate you are for me. I would wager that you have never produced such a copious quantity of pre-seminal fluid for anyone else, am I correct?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “Good boy.” Moriarty ruffles his hair gently. “Of course I _am_ still going to have to punish you for looking at other people. It will not do to let you become undisciplined.”

    “Of course, Professor.”

    “You may remove your drawers now.”

    Moran does, grimacing as the silk sticks to him briefly where it is soaked through, sliding the drawers down over his hips, letting them drop to the floor. Completely freed then, his cock stands up stiffly.

    “Stand here.” With a hand against Moran’s still-corseted back, Moriarty pushes him gently over towards the foot of the bed. “Lean over and hold onto the bedstead.” Moran grips the cool metal tightly, leaning over, curling his head under. With his foot Moriarty nudges Moran’s legs apart. “Don’t tense so, Sebastian, you will only make it hurt more.” He picks up the cane again and gives a couple of experimental slashes with it at the air to Moran’s right, noting how Moran flinches at the sound. “Sebastian, my dove, you know that I am doing this because I care for you, don’t you?” he says, moving himself into position behind the colonel, just off to the side. “Because you require discipline.”

    “Yes sir.” Moran still trembles with, what, nervousness? Arousal? Both, no doubt.

    Moriarty rubs him between the shoulder-blades with the knuckles of his left hand. “My sweet, brave boy,” he says, and brings the cane down sharply across Moran’s buttocks with his right hand. “ _One._ ”

    Moran lets out a sharp cry more of surprise than pain and stumbles forward.

    “Stand still!” Moriarty barks at him, dragging him back into position. He lets a few seconds pass, long enough for the initial sting of the blow to pass, before thwacking it down quickly again at a slightly different angle this time. “ _Two._ ”

    Moran shudders but keeps from crying out this time, biting it back before slowly letting his breath out through his nose to keep from making too much noise. Enough strikes and he would soon lose that control, being unable to stop himself from crying out, from whimpering and sobbing in pain, but he will fight to keep his control for as long as possible.

    Moriarty backs off for a moment, waiting until Moran is absolutely still and quiet, before delivering the next blow, again moving it to a slightly different position. This is not done solely just to mark a greater area of Moran’s backside, but also to minimise the risk of injury. Too many strikes in the same position is always far more likely to break the skin. It does have the bonus though of creating more red lines upon his flesh, a sight which pleases the professor a great deal. “ _Three._ ”

    Moran goes tense whenever the cane hits him, instinctively recoiling slightly from each stinging blow, still trying to keep from crying out again, but by the seventh strike he is struggling. Behind his blindfold there are tears in his eyes and his breath is coming out in sobbing gasps. With the next blow and Moriarty’s crisply delivered, _“Eight”,_ Moran cannot keep from letting out a convulsive sob of pain and frustrated lust too.

    Moriarty pauses, rubbing Moran’s upper back again. “Shhh, shhh, my pet, my brave boy, my sweet dove, you are doing so well.”

    “Sir, please…” His cock jerks with every blow and he’s getting ever closer to the edge. The caning hurts, yes, but the plug is still firmly in place and each blow is providing additional stimulation to that, and Moran is so keyed up with lust anyway that each strike is driving him ever nearer to finishing. “Please, I can’t… I can’t last much longer.”

    “You can and you will.” Moriarty is close against his back momentarily, his trousers feeling so much rougher now against Moran’s sore backside. He sounds so _reasonable_ , so quiet and controlled, not angry, not demanding, and his words and tone are so soothing.

    Moran bows his head again. His whole body is tense still as he grips the bedstead, knuckles pale, the muscles of his arms standing out sharply. His chest heaves inside the corset; even catching his breath properly seems a struggle now, never mind keeping himself together. Moriarty gives him a few moments to calm himself a little before delivering the next strike.

    “ _Nine._ ”

    Moran chokes on another sobbing cry and Moriarty pauses again to allow him time for the bright flares of pain to dull a little. Idly he trails the tip of the cane up between Moran’s buttocks, over the plug, up to beneath the edge of the corset, and back down again, before raising the cane high to deliver the final strike.

    “ _Ten!_ ”

    Moran practically screams at the dizzying pain mixed with pleasure that the last blow produces as it strikes squarely at the base of the plug. Sobs burst out of his chest despite the constraints of the corset as his legs buckle. Moriarty though catches him with one arm slipped around his chest before he falls to the floor. Tossing the cane aside, he draws Moran to him, holding him close.

    “Shh, shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you.” As he grasps his lover to his chest he slips his hand around Moran’s back and works the knots of the corset’s lacing undone, loosening it enough that he may remove it in a moment. Moran’s chest heaves even more violently as the corset comes loose and Moriarty is reminded of an animal, of a horse perhaps, its sides heaving after being to made gallop. Like a horse too Moran may still spook if handled poorly, so Moriarty continues to speak to him softly and stroke and pet his sides and back, calming him down a little. “Your punishment is complete, pet, and you did so well; I’m so proud of you.”

    “Professor, I, I need to…” Moran nuzzles his face against Moriarty’s shoulder, unable to see him but he can breathe in his scent; he can feel his warm solidity. He clings to him tightly, everything else, even his desperate need for release, forgotten temporarily, and Moriarty allows this. Moran needs a little time before they can proceed to the next part of the game and Moriarty is a great believer in the tenet that patience is a virtue.

     When at last Moran seems a little calmer, Moriarty removes the corset entirely then guides Moran towards the bed and pushes him gently but firmly down to sit on its edge. Moran squirms again as his caned backside hits the sheets and as this new position jolts the plug once more, but then he settles, only showing agitation again when he feels Moriarty withdraw from him.

    “Professor?” He cannot stop himself half-lifting his hand to reach for him, groping at thin air.

    “Shh, I’m still here.” The corset lies discarded on the floor now, but this doesn’t matter. Moriarty has something else in mind to remind Moran that he is owned. He picks up the stout leather dog collar with _J. Moriarty_ engraved on its metal tag.

    There is certainly something doglike about Moran’s devotion to him, and too in the way in which he snuffles briefly against Moriarty’s hand as he approaches him again. Still he cannot see but he can smell the leather of the collar and that seems to be enough to relax him. He knows that scent and understands it, and he lifts his chin obligingly so that Moriarty may slide the leather around his throat, slipping the end through the buckle, pulling it tight, _tighter_ , a hole tighter than he generally fastens it, so that now in place of the pressure around his ribs there is that new pressure around his throat. The leather is soft and supple, wide enough so that though constrictive it does not create a more intense pressure against any particular point to minimise the risk of causing Moran harm.

     Moriarty slips the loose end of the strap through the metal keeper. “There.” He runs his hand over the top of Moran’s head, smoothing down his hair, then over the blindfold, down Moran’s cheek, allowing Moran to nuzzle against his palm. “You look so beautiful, Sebastian,” he tells him. “Collared for me, blinded, _desperate_.” He smiles fondly, and Moran can hear that in his voice even though he cannot see Moriarty’s face. “ _Mine._ ”

    “Yes sir.”

    “So, do you want me to play with you again, my dove?”

    “Yes sir.”

    “So then, _how_ precisely would you like me to play with you?”

    Moran dips his head. “However you wish, Professor.”


	7. Chapter 7

   “Very good.” Moriarty presses a kiss to Moran’s forehead before he moves away from him this time. “Would you be so good as to move further over onto the bed? I would like you flat on your back, for now.”

    Moran cautiously shifts over, unable to tell precisely how far over he is without his sight but taking a guess at where the rough centre of the bed is. There he settles gingerly onto his back and, resting his arms by his side, waits.

    Moriarty leans over him a few seconds later, grasping Moran’s left wrist. Moran feels the thick leather strap being slipped around it, pulled tight but not quite as tight as his collar. He hears the chink of the stout length of chain that connects this leather cuff to its partner as Moriarty tugs his left arm up, above his head, and passes the second cuff and chain through the head end of the metal bedstead. The second cuff goes about Moran’s right wrist, buckled securely, so that both his arms are pulled up above his head and his movement of them is severely restricted. He knows that already, having had experience of these particular cuffs before, but still he has to tug at them to fully remind himself just how limited his movement is.

    “Satisfied?” Moriarty enquires, trailing two fingertips over Moran’s cheek briefly. He had these cuffs especially made with Moran in mind, ensuring that they were strong and would give Moran a proper sense of being controlled, but also that their insides were padded with the softest leather so as not to damage his prized sniper’s wrists.

    “Yes Professor.”

    “Good, then there is one more thing I wish to put on you before we proceed.”

    Moran does not ask what, aware that Moriarty will let him know in good time. Indeed it is only seconds before he feels the bed dip beside him as Moriarty sits next to him, then Moriarty’s fingers wrap around the base of his cock. Moran gasps at the touch, then tenses as Moriarty’s hand slips down to lift up his balls, and then he understands.

    “ _No,_ ” he says.

    “Yes, my dear Moran.”

    Moriarty holds a device consisting of two connected leather straps, thinner than both the cuffs and collar but just as strong, just as smooth and supple, and just as constraining in their own way. He passes one around the base of Moran’s testicles and buckles it securely. The other strap goes around the base of his cock, fastened equally tightly.

    “No, Professor, please.” Moran twists his face sideways against the bed covers. “Please, no.” He understands the purpose of these straps all too well – they are intended to delay his orgasm, perhaps even to deny him one entirely. Of course the professor would not be so cruel as to leave those straps in place for many hours and irreparably damage his lover, but to have his much longed for, much _needed_ release delayed _again_ … it’s too much.

    Moriarty lets his hand come to rest on Moran’s hip. “You know the rules, pet, one word, one word is all it takes.” He pauses, giving Moran time to think, to consider fully what he wants.

    “ _Please,_ ” Moran cries, his hands clenching in the cuffs, but that is not the word he must speak if he wishes to end this now. “Please, Professor, I…"

   "Give me the word, Sebastian."

   And Moran gives him a word. " _Proceed_.”

    Moriarty observes him for a moment longer. He does not question this aloud but he is still ascertaining in his own mind that Moran is not merely saying this because he feels he must but because - despite his unease and uncertainty - deep down he truly wants it. Once certain of this he slides off the bed, causing Moran to whimper at the loss of contact.

    “I’m right here.” Indeed Moriarty has only retreated in order to remove his waistcoat, then his trousers. As he lowers them down his hips he troubles to notice properly for the first time how hard he himself is becoming. Up to now his own arousal has been no more than a background concern, but it is something that he feels he must soon address directly. With this in mind then, with a glance to make sure that the vial of oil is in easy reach for later, he straddles Moran, leaning over him to kiss him on the mouth.

    Moran kisses back hungrily and after a few seconds of this Moriarty has to draw back a little, laughing at Moran’s desperation. “Steady, steady my boy, steady.” He grips Moran’s hair in his fist and tugs his head back, baring Moran’s neck. Steadily he presses kisses along the edge of Moran’s jaw, down his throat above the collar, down each of his collarbones in turn. When he reaches Moran’s chest though he changes from kisses to careful nips, biting carefully first at one nipple, then the other, making Moran hiss and tug ineffectually at his restraints.

    Moran cannot stop himself from bucking up against Moriarty, trying to wrap his leg around the professor and achieve greater friction against his cock, and Moriarty does understand his urgency: Moran wants to be filled and fucked and brought to climax with the professor inside him, and Moriarty does want to give him this, but perhaps not quite as Moran expects it.

    He shifts himself up Moran’s body, so that briefly he is sitting astride Moran’s chest. But then by putting his weight on his arms to the side of Moran so as not to crush him, he manoeuvres himself into his intended position: kneeling over him, above his head, facing Moran’s feet.

    “Open your mouth, chick,” he instructs, and Moran obeys unquestioningly. Very carefully then Moriarty takes his own hot, hard length in his hand and pushes its tip between Moran’s lips, groaning thickly as it slips into Moran’s beautifully warm mouth, sliding over his tongue. He would like to thrust quickly down Moran’s throat but he forces himself to hold back, to go slow, remembering that Moran is at a disadvantage here, being blindfolded and restrained, and that even though Moran is fully used to pleasuring him with his mouth, even to deep-throating him, it is much less common for him to do so upside down. Despite his own desire for release becoming ever more pressing, Moriarty does not wish to choke Moran. So, slowly, cautiously at first, he begins to fuck Moran’s mouth, only increasing in speed and urgency when he feels Moran try to raise his head off the bed a little further to try to draw Moriarty’s length further into his throat. He slides himself in and out of the delightful warm wetness of Moran’s mouth, against Moran’s smooth tongue, hearing the colonel mewl with frustration when he withdraws too far, before he presses deeper into Moran once more.

    A perverse urge seizes Moriarty then as he looks down and sees Moran’s cock standing stiffly between his legs. He leans forward slightly, bracing himself on his arms, his hands planted either side of Moran’s hips, and without very much effort at all he takes the very tip of Moran’s prick in his mouth and sucks.

    Moran goes absolutely still, totally rigid, momentarily stunned by the sensation, being further surprised when he is sure he hears Moriarty actually _laugh_ around his cock. Moran knows that Moriarty does not particularly enjoy performing fellatio. The symbolism of the act, the sense of control it can provide over one’s partner, can appeal to him, but he has always made it plain that he strongly dislikes the taste. But now here he is, slowly lowering his mouth onto Moran’s length, taking half of it in before he withdraws a degree, keeping just the head between his lips. At the same time he continues fucking Moran’s throat, hearing Moran’s muffled moans of pleasure as he simultaneously pleasures and is pleasured by his lover.

    Moran bucks his hips up, trying to remember not to thrust too hard, trying to keep in mind that this is the _professor_ and he doesn’t want to do anything to offend him, but his thought is fragmenting, dissolving into mere sensations - the hardness of Moriarty’s cock in his mouth, the salty taste of his arousal on his tongue, the weight of Moriarty above him, the warmth and softness of Moriarty’s lips around the head of his prick. But then the mouth around his cock is gone and he whimpers at the loss, knowing deep down in whatever small portion of his brain is still capable of rational thought that it was a foregone conclusion that Moriarty would not actually suck him to completion, but still regretting its withdrawal.

    Above Moran though Moriarty’s thrusting has become more erratic; his breathing has changed, becoming more rapid. He had intended only to tease Moran a little, not bring him to orgasm quite just yet, and now his own orgasm is close he has ceased sucking Moran, more focused on thrusting into Moran’s throat. His cessation does not though seem to concern Moran too much; still he is eagerly trying to suck and lap at Moriarty’s prick and draw the professor’s length as deep into his mouth as he can get it, even though in this position there are a few seconds where he can barely draw breath at all.

    Moriarty thrusts thrice more, shallow, desperate thrusts at the last, and goes still, his body tensing, arching his back, his hands fisting in the sheets either side of Moran and he lets out a strangled cry as he spills down his companion’s throat. Moran swallows the liquid without hesitation, still sucking and licking at the shaft, then at the head, trying to coax the last few droplets of fluid out even as Moriarty slowly withdraws from him.


	8. Chapter 8

   The professor carefully moves to sit beside Moran, resting a hand on Moran’s chest to reassure him that he is not going anywhere and perhaps also to reassure himself a little. Orgasms often leave him feeling momentarily lost and he needs a minute or two to get his thoughts ordered and compose himself before he can even think about proceeding. He knows that he needs to be fully in control of himself again so he may take proper care and control of Moran for the final portion of this game.

    “Professor?” Moran turns his head, though of course he cannot see Moriarty still, and Moriarty can hear such concern in his companion’s voice. Even when at Moriarty’s mercy and desperate for release, Moran is still able to worry about the professor.

    “I’m fine, pet.” Moriarty pushes the loose strands of hair that have fallen over his forehead back and sits up straighter. He can still faintly taste Moran’s arousal. It is not something he finds particularly pleasant but it is not unpleasant enough to concern him for more than a few seconds. He debates briefly whether to remove his shirt but decides to leave it on since he has got this far without removing it. Although not truly shy about his body, he likes how remaining partly clothed while Moran is naked gives him a greater sense of control over his lover. It is necessary though for him to roll up his sleeves, leaving his wrists and forearms bare. “Sebastian, my dove,” he says softly, and with a hand on Moran’s hip he gently coaxes Moran to lie on his side, facing away from him. The chains attached to Moran’s wrist cuffs chink and clatter at the movement but they are not so restrictive that he cannot lie comfortably enough in this new position. “You want me inside you, don’t you my pet?” Moriarty says, pressing himself against Moran’s back, running his hand down Moran’s flank, along his thigh.

    “Yes sir.” Moran’s voice sounds hoarser than ever now.

    “You want to feel me inside you, up your _arse_ , stretching you, filling you up, until I finally allow you release.”

    “Yes sir.”

    Moriarty continues to stroke lightly up and down Moran’s hip, drawn suddenly to press a kiss to Moran’s shoulder. “I can give you that, pigeon,” he tells him, “but perhaps I shall not give it to you in quite the way you are thinking of.”

    Moran swallows but says nothing, trying to understand this but not understanding at all.

    “I speak not of putting my _prick_ inside you, chick, but my _hand_.” The same hand which presently rests, warm and firm, upon Moran’s thigh. He feels Moran tense beneath his touch.

    “Sir…”

    “It is perfectly possible. We have discussed it before, remember?”

    “Sir, I don’t…”

    “You are already halfway, more even, towards being prepared for this.” Moriarty drops his hand between them and seizes the plug, giving it a sharp twist which leaves Moran gasping and panting.

    “ _Please…_ ”

    “So stretched and ready for me. I assure you, Sebastian, you are easily capable of accommodating my hand.” He grasps the plug’s base and slowly eases it out, relishing how Moran’s breath stutters as he does so. Initially he encounters a slight resistance but suddenly it pops out easily and he tosses the toy aside.

    Moran curls in on himself as much as he can with his arms restrained, feeling suddenly so empty, so strange. He hated having that toy inside him, driving him half out of his mind with its maddening inner stimulation, but now it is gone… bizarrely he misses the sense of being filled.

    “ _Professor_ ,” he hisses as Moriarty slips a finger inside him, the passage still slicked with oil from the plug’s insertion, and finds himself pressing back, wanting more than a single digit. The very idea of having Moriarty’s entire hand inside him though seems completely absurd, and very dangerous, and yet… as Moriarty adds a second finger Moran pushes back harder, craving even more than that, desperate to be filled up again.

   “You want this?” Moriarty asks.

    “Yes sir.”

    “You’re certain?”

    “ _Yes!_ ” Moran almost sobs in desperation, frustration, pure _need_ , and whimpers again when Moriarty initially only removes his fingers entirely from him. Within a few seconds though the fingers are back, two of them, more, pressed tight together, now with more oil added from the vial on the nightstand.

    Moriarty works into him slowly, carefully, while Moran moans and utters breathless curses into the sheets. It’s too much, Moran thinks, but he wants more. When Moriarty adds his thumb alongside his fingers Moran cries out but pushes back, trying to impale himself more rapidly.

    “Shhh, steady, steady, we shall do this nice and slowly.” Moriarty keeps his voice low and soothing, no longer certain if Moran is capable of entirely understanding him. Even with the colonel partly prepared by the plug and even with plenty of oil it is still tight and Moran still gasps as he is stretched bit by bit.

    “Please,” he says. “ _Please._ ” Though he no longer seems to know what he is pleading for, he only knows that he wants more. This is like nothing he has felt before, the feeling of being opened and filled different to the feeling of having the professor’s cock in him, different to having any kind of toy inside him. Though his own cock is still jutting up fiercely he has almost forgotten about that, so focused is he on the intensity of the stretch, the sense of letting Moriarty inside him in a whole new way, the slight discomfort as Moriarty’s hand goes deeper, and deeper.

    He experiences a brief moment of terror when that hand feels impossibly large - much, much larger than his rational mind would tell him it is. It cannot possibly slip inside him without ripping him open, he thinks, and a sob bursts from his chest.

    “Shhh, Sebastian, shhh.” Moriarty pauses, not withdrawing but not proceeding either, keeping his right hand perfectly still, rubbing slow circles on Moran’s lower back with his left, waiting, waiting to be completely certain that his lover is not panicking or wanting to cease before he continues. “Breathe, Sebastian, that’s it, breathe slowly.”

    The brief spasm of fear that seems to have gripped Moran passes. He breathes slower, steadier, trembling still but Moriarty feels the tension seep from him; feels Moran relaxing around his hand; feels him putting his full trust in the professor to give him absolute pleasure.

    Much of Moran’s pain passes as Moriarty slips his hand all the way inside at last, once the largest portion of his hand is past the relatively narrow entrance, which now only need stretch around the thinner wrist.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty whispers to him, feeling something constrict in his own chest now, not a sob but… _something_. Moran’s trust in him is so deep, so intense; he has never experienced anything like this and does not know quite what to do with this odd feeling of pleasurable pain in his chest. “My good boy.” He pauses again, giving Moran a few seconds to adjust to the sensations, and while he has paused he slips his free hand around between Moran’s legs and undoes the restraining straps around his prick and testicles.

    Moran is so wrapped up in this strange feeling of relief though once Moriarty’s hand is successfully planted inside him, and the throbbing, aching intensity of the sensations deep within him that he barely even registers what is happening elsewhere on his body. He feels fuller than he has ever been before and there is still a little pain initially, but with every tiny movement of Moriarty’s hand soon he feels almost as if he is floating, riding above the pain and the sense of fullness, like being wrapped in a cloud, and he wishes he could stay like this forever. This is beyond closeness to his professor; this is being filled by him, possessed by him, joined to him. Never before has he felt so vulnerable, so exposed and so aware that Moriarty has got so deeply under his skin. It is such a feeling of raw intimacy, as if all of his sinews and muscles and nerves are exposed, as if his very soul is on show, but through it all, connected to Moriarty like this, he feels… _safe_.

    The professor does keep talking to Moran throughout, not constantly, but offering praise and reassuring him, although he is absolutely certain by now that Moran has lost all comprehension of the words; that he could be telling Moran he is going to cut off his balls or slit his throat and so long as it was said in a soothing tone Moran wouldn’t even care.

    “My good boy,” he says. “ _Mein liebchen_.”

    Of course there is a suggestion of dirtiness about this act, both physically and more metaphorically speaking. But it is a profound feeling for him too, almost awe-inspiring that Moran trusts him so deeply that he will allow this. The professor feels almost as if his hand is far deeper inside Moran than it is in reality, pressed deep into the core of him, into his heart. He can feel Moran’s pulse, the beat of his heart like this, and more than ever he is perhaps aware of how easy it would be to hurt Moran, to harm him, to break him, even, yet how fiercely he wishes to protect Moran from such harm.

    He barely needs to move his hand once he is inside the colonel. Even the subtlest of movements are amplified for Moran many times over, making him mewl and whimper incoherently, his hands clenching in the cuffs. He is beyond words now, beyond rational thought, floating high above all of that, feeling somehow all at once that Moriarty is within him and he is within Moriarty, that they are inextricably bound together body and soul, drifting there detached from all else in the world. He is oblivious to the now rather crumpled bed-sheets beneath them, to the clanking of the chains that restrain his wrists, to the fainter sounds of the crackling fire and the ticking clock. Likely now he could not even remember his own name or even Moriarty’s, but only the professor’s presence matters. There is nothing else in the world now but the two of them and these waves of pleasure radiating through him.

    When the professor puts his free hand on Moran’s prick and brings him to climax it seems almost beside the point. It takes only three strokes to make him spend copiously. For Moran there is perhaps a sense of a great pressure _somewhere_ suddenly being released, the final bit of weight which tethers him to the physical world dissipating, allowing him to fly even higher and further heightening this delicious sense of bliss he is wrapped in. He is barely aware though of his own body’s reaction as he climaxes, his release spurting up his abdomen.

    Moriarty is however keenly aware of it when Moran finally comes, feeling him clench again and again around his wrist, so wonderfully hot and tight. He can hear too the strangled sobs that Moran lets out with his orgasm, until at last Moran, totally spent and exhausted, goes very still and very quiet. Moriarty lies there on his side for a moment, feeling somewhat overwhelmed himself by the intensity of Moran’s reaction. When his companion makes no further sound or movement though he eases his hand out of him and with his other hand gently tips Moran onto his back.


	9. Chapter 9

   “Sebastian?” the professor says softly, carefully pulling off the blindfold.

    Moran’s eyes are open but totally unfocused; his pupils are huge and dark. Seemingly though he is not unconscious, just… _gone_ \- totally gone, still floating somewhere high above this bed, this room, this house, with his mouth pulled into a dreamy half-smile.

    Moriarty sits up, glancing down at Moran again to see if there is any change in his expression. There is not. Even as Moriarty unbuckles the collar from around Moran’s throat he still seems to be very far out of it, far too contented to want to make any immediate attempt to move himself. Moriarty decides therefore it is safe to leave Moran alone just for a minute or two while he goes to wash his hands and prepare a couple of other things. He unfastens the cuffs first though, removing them from Moran’s wrists and gently setting Moran’s arms down by his sides, manipulating him almost like some type of doll rather than a human being.

     The first time Moriarty witnessed Moran slipping into such a state he was somewhat unnerved by it – by this sense of Moran being there but not really there at all. He has seen men die and witnessed how that spark leaves them, how suddenly a person becomes just a lump of dead meat with all animation gone. It is not like that, but there is still a definite sense that Moran is not with him in these moments, that his mind, his _spirit_ even, is elsewhere. It reminds the professor almost of his time in school when one of his fellow pupils would sleepwalk through the corridors at night, disconcertingly seeming to be both there and not there at once, alive and animated but almost totally unaware of external stimulus, of potential dangers to his life and wellbeing.

    He is becoming more used to it now, although true he has never before witnessed Moran having such a deep, intense reaction as this, and he understands that for Moran to enter this state is no bad thing – on the contrary it is an intensely pleasurable thing for him. This is not the dissociation caused by the recollection of traumatic events in his past that the colonel has experienced on a couple of other occasions. This is more akin to the pleasant effects of various narcotics. Moran is of course though deeply vulnerable in these moments, as prone to harming himself if not properly watched and cared for as the somnambulist who is unaware that he stands at the edge of a precipice and may tumble down if not gently drawn back. Until reason returns to him then he must be kept safe, and the professor, for all his inherent selfishness, regards this as much a part of keeping his companion under control as the games themselves. One must always take good care of one’s tools and toys if one wishes them to function properly in future, after all. Moran’s own guns, for instance, if not properly cleaned and oiled and cared for after use, might soon become prone to jamming and breaking down.

    Moriarty thoroughly washes and dries his hands. A proper wash must wait but this much cannot. This done, he puts his dressing gown on over his shirt and goes down to the kitchen to fetch a clean glass of cool water. Upon Moriarty's return to the bedroom, Moran’s gaze drifts sleepily over to rest on Moriarty’s face and instantly he smiles drowsily at the professor.

    “James,” he whispers.

    “Sebastian.” Moriarty strokes Moran’s sweat-soaked forehead with his fingers. “My good, courageous Sebastian. How do you feel, my dove?”

    “Nice,” Moran says, after screwing up his brow in deep thought for a second or two as he struggles to find the words. “Tired.”

    “I will let you rest properly very soon,” Moriarty tells him as he slides his hand beneath Moran’s back, helping him to half sit up, supporting him there while he holds the glass of water to Moran’s parched lips. “First though I want you to drink this.”

    Moran, realising now how desperately thirsty he is, gulps down the water gratefully.

     Whilst supporting him, Moriarty can feel Moran shivering. It does not surprise him that Moran has gone cold despite the warmth of the room – their games can be physically as well as emotionally taxing and Moran has been sweating heavily. Now beginning to come down from whatever pinnacle he has reached, a strong sense of cold begins to grip him.

    “I will run you a nice warm bath and get you clean,” Moriarty tells him, holding Moran close while he drinks the rest of the water. “Then you may rest until dinner.” When the glass is empty Moriarty wraps a blanket around Moran, pulling it tenderly around his shoulders. “Lie here; I’m going to prepare the bath.” He presses a hand to Moran’s cheek and kisses his forehead before leaving his side.

    When the bath is ready, steam curling off the water, the professor half leads and half carries Moran into the bathroom, helping and supporting him to get into the tub. Moran’s legs are unsteady and moreover he still seems rather dazed, though he remains pliant enough and it not difficult to gently ease him in the water. Moriarty kneels by the side of the tub to wash him, to carefully wipe and rinse away all unpleasantness from Moran’s body and hair and leave him feeling clean, warm and contented. Moran’s eyes are half-closed all the while. Even opening them fully would feel like too much effort, but then he feels no urgent need to try it. He knows that the professor is here with him, taking care of him; for these moments that is all that matters.

    After helping Moran out of the bath Moriarty briefly dries him off before putting him into a soft towelling robe and leading him back to the bedroom. The professor notes with distaste that the sheets are a little soiled, primarily from the oil rather than anything worse. Later they will need to be changed though but for now they will do. Moran seems to be in such a blissful state he will not notice or care what state the sheets are in. He coaxes Moran into the bed then, plumping the pillows for him before pulling the blankets over him, tucking him in like a child.

    “Rest now, pigeon,” he says, stroking Moran’s brow. “Sleep for an hour or two if you like. Then once you are rested we can think about our dinner.” When he tries to move away though Moran slips his hand out from beneath the covers and catches Moriarty’s hand in a weak grip.

    “James, I…” His voice trails off; he is at a loss to know what to say.

    “I will not be far away, I promise you.” Moriarty lifts Moran’s hand to his lips and kisses his knuckles. “I am only going to wash and change and to tidy up our toys.” Carefully he replaces Moran’s hand back under the bedclothes. “Rest now.”

    Satisfied, Moran closes his eyes and drifts into sleep.


	10. Chapter 10

   While Moran sleeps, Moriarty takes the opportunity to take a long, relaxing soak in the bath himself. He leaves the bathroom door open a touch on this occasion, both so that he may listen out in case the colonel stirs, and just because he can. Tonight there is no chance of one of the servants wandering in on him and catching him in all his glory. There is much to be said for taking a nice bath, he thinks, in water scented lightly from the fragranced bath salts – it is one of life’s great pleasures. He feels every bit of tension seeping from his muscles as he lies in the warm water, humming softly to himself while he pointedly does not think of very much at all. He remains in the tub until the water has cooled noticeably, at which point he gets out, dries himself thoroughly and dresses for dinner.

    Moran awakens a little while later, feeling like he is still inside a big fluffy cloud. It takes him several seconds to realise that he is actually wrapped in a soft towelling robe, lying amidst well-fluffed pillows and with the blankets pulled over him. He is alone in the room but even upon grasping this fact he feels no sense of alarm. Within him still is the certainty that the professor is close at hand; that he would absolutely not leave him alone. So he is able to lie there quite contentedly just simply looking up at the ceiling, his eyes idly taking in the pattern of the coving and noting a few tiny cracks winding their way across the ceiling. By degrees he becomes more and more aware of his surroundings, observing that the light coming in the window has changed, suggesting it is very late in the afternoon now, and noting that almost all the traces of their earlier games – the bloomers, the various toys, the bottle of oil – have been removed or tidied away. It does occur to him some minutes after noticing this that the sheets will need to be changed before they retire to bed tonight. Well, he thinks, he can do that later. There is no rush.

    He feels refreshed and pleasantly satiated, still though with a slightly dreamlike quality to his awareness, as if none of this is quite real still. When Moriarty comes to him again and gently brushes his fingers across Moran’s cheek, Moran can only smile up at him at first.

    “Professor,” he says. “ _Professor_.”

    “How do you feel now?” Moriarty asks gently.

     “Good, sir, really really good.” Moran is smiling in a way Moriarty has rarely seen him smile before. He looks so _happy_ – deeply, truly happy.

     “Do you feel up to getting changed and coming down to dinner?”

     “Yes sir.” Moran yawns and stretches before sitting up in the bed.

     “Excellent. I believe we should have approximately an hour until our dinner is delivered, so as soon as you feel up to rising-”

    “I’m fine now.” To prove this Moran throws the covers aside and swings his legs around, getting up out of the bed. There is a second or two when his legs feel slightly shaky still, but it passes.

    Moriarty slides his arms around Moran’s waist, drawing him close, holding him in a snug embrace. “Sebastian.” He runs his hand up Moran’s back. “I…” He has no idea then what he had been about to say. He recalls how he felt when his hand was buried deep inside his lover; how shockingly intimate this had seemed to be for both of them. He remembers too how much the depth of Moran’s trust in him had touched him in a way he has long thought he could simply not be touched. “I am so proud of you, Sebastian.”

    “Thank you, sir.” Moran buries his face against Moriarty’s shoulder, drinking in his clean, warm scent, and so they stand here like this, holding on to each other but saying nothing more for perhaps half a minute or more, until Moriarty finally pointedly clears his throat.

    “Well, go and get changed then,” he says gently. “Perhaps into your navy suit?”

    Moran dips his head, grinning slightly. “Of course, sir.”

 ~

    Before sending the servants away Moran had been perfectly prepared to try his hand at cooking the dinner, but Moriarty decided to leave that particular job to trusted professionals. Moran remains uncertain as to whether this is because the professor mistrusts his culinary skills or because Moriarty simply wanted them to be able to spend a little more time together. Either way, Moriarty had therefore arranged with the proprietor of a nearby restaurant to have their meal for today cooked and delivered to them. Considering this now, Moran is rather glad about this arrangement.

    They may not be dining out today but this is no reason for them to be slovenly. Moriarty is already dressed in his black suit, white shirt and black necktie combination, looking clean and smart, albeit somewhat sombre. Moran favours something slightly less _funereal_ for his clothing, even though he has to admit that dark colours can be rather flattering (especially on the professor). He would generally prefer his lighter coloured suits, but perhaps the navy does look rather fine on him he decides as he catches sight of himself in the mirror, and the professor seems to admire it. After then combing and smoothing down his hair he goes downstairs in search of the professor.

    Moriarty has set the dinner table himself, laying out the necessary linen, crockery and cutlery, along with a nice bottle of wine. He is just lighting the candles on the table as Moran enters the room.

    “Ah Sebastian, my boy.” He turns and beckons to Moran and when Moran approaches he catches his hands, holding both of them in his own as he regards his companion. “You look magnificent.” Perhaps it is something as trivial as the candlelight, or perhaps it is something else; either way there seems to be a definite glow about Moran. “Although…” He sniffs. “You have been smoking.”

    Moran had secretly hoped the professor wouldn’t notice this – it was before he put his suit on after all. “You can’t expect me to go all weekend without a smoke.”

    “No, I suppose not.” Moriarty is well aware that depriving Moran of tobacco for too long can leave him frustrated and restless.

    “Shouldn’t I be doing that?” Moran enquires, nodding towards the table. “Am I not still your devoted servant?” He grins.

    “Always, my dove, but I thought this could not wait.” Moriarty lifts Moran’s right hand to his lips and kisses it. “Though perhaps if you could fetch the wine glasses?”

    “Of course sir.” Moran flashes him a quick smile before going to fetch the glasses. While he is doing that the doorbell rings and he hears Moriarty go out into the hallway to answer it.

    Very shortly the highly efficient restaurant staff have produced the meal of fine roast beef with potatoes, carrots and gravy from under the covered dishes and set them out on the table, all still hot. Although the staff have already been paid in advance for their trouble, Moriarty tips them handsomely too before seeing them out.

   “Well, Moran.” He returns to find Moran uncorking the wine. “We should tuck in before it goes cold,” he says, sitting down.

    “Yes sir.” The cork comes out with a faint pop, and Moran grins. “I do so like to have something hot inside me.”

    “Yes, I had noticed,” Moriarty remarks with a perfectly straight face, letting a few seconds pass before he catches Moran’s eye again.

    Moran laughs as he pours wine into Moriarty’s glass. “You have had plenty of occasions to notice.”

   “Indeed I have. Do sit down, Sebastian.”

    Moran sits before splashing wine into his own glass. He takes a sip of it as he watches Moriarty begin to eat, whilst under the table he lets his ankle brush against Moriarty’s.

   “Stop that,” Moriarty says, not looking up from cutting up his beef, but he is smiling as he says this. “Eat your dinner.”

   “Yes sir.” Moran lowers his gaze to his own plate. He resolutely does not though move his foot away from the professor’s and Moriarty makes no move to push him away either.

    Much of the meal passes in comfortable silence. From time to time they catch each other’s eye and give each other lingering looks and small smiles but there seems to be little that needs to be said. For now there is simply good food and wine to be enjoyed in good company, with absolutely no need for forced attempts at making small talk.

    “You are all right?” Moriarty asks when he has consumed the majority of his meal. “Not too sore?” He has been observing how Moran sits, seeing if he fidgets or flinches excessively but has not noticed any overly concerning signs.

    “I’m fine, providing you don’t expect me to ride in a cab again for a while.”

    “I will bear that in mind.”

    “What will we do tomorrow then, sir?” Moran asks as he spears his last piece of potato with his fork and pushes it around the plate, trying to wipe up the last bit of gravy.

   “I have no particular plans. Perhaps we should do very little, Sunday being the day of rest.”

    “It’s meant to be a day for going to church and all,” Moran points out, which makes Moriarty chortle.

    “Has a miracle occurred, Moran? Has having my hand inside you suddenly caused you to find religion?”

    “It’d take more than your hand up my arse to make me find religion, I assure you.” Moran grins slyly as he drains the remainder of his wine. “We could spend the day in bed tomorrow.”

   “I was not intending to be _quite_ so restful as that.”

   “Who said anything about _resting_?”

   “ _Sebastian_ ,” Moriarty chides gently, but there is still amusement written on his face, in the lift to his mouth, in the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, in his eyes themselves. He pops the last piece of beef into his mouth and chews it carefully and slowly.

    Moran leans back in his chair a little and watches him - watches Moriarty’s throat as he swallows; watches him dip his tongue out to swipe away the residue of gravy from his lips before he dabs carefully at them with his napkin.

    “You will have chores to do tomorrow anyway,” the professor tells him after a pause.

    “Oh?”

    “You will have to sort out the fires and prepare breakfast again.”

    “That’s hardly going to take all day,” Moran points out.

    “I am sure I can think of several other tasks for you to perform.”

    “I’m sure you can.”

    “Perhaps cleaning my boots.”

    Moran snorts disdainfully. “I could do that in my sleep.”

    “With your _tongue_.” Moriarty raises both eyebrows at Moran, challenging him to decline this.

    Moran pauses only for a second before answering. “If you like.”

    Moriarty laughs again. “Well, we shall see about that tomorrow. For now though I believe there is a rather delicious looking Eve’s pudding awaiting us in the kitchen, if you would be so good as to take these plates away and to fetch that.”

 ~

    After eating the indeed rather delicious (even to Moran who has less of a sweet tooth) apple and sponge pudding, again largely in relaxed silence, Moran dutifully clears the plates away. Moriarty follows him into the scullery, slipping his arms around Moran’s waist from behind as Moran stands at the sink, jacket off and sleeves rolled up, to wash the crockery.

    “I feel that I could get used to this,” he remarks, nuzzling into the short hair at the nape of Moran’s neck.

    “Having me as your servant?”

    “Having the house completely to ourselves. Perhaps we should do it more often.”

    Moran quivers slightly as he feels Moriarty’s lips brush lightly down his spine, until they can go no further without removing his shirt collar. “You’d get bored of it soon enough.” He knows better than anyone that the novelty soon tends to wear off for Moriarty. One of the very few things which has managed to hold his interest is Moran himself but he remains a rare exception.

    “Well then, Moran,” Moriarty murmurs against his skin, “perhaps we might have to consider new ways to continue to make it interesting, hmm?”

   Unable to bear it any more, Moran lets the plate he holds slide under the water and turns in Moriarty’s hold. Water runs down his bare arms, dripping onto the floor, as he grasps the professor’s head between his palms, hands still wet, and kisses him eagerly on the mouth. Moriarty kisses back, rough, hard, possessively, until they must withdraw to catch their breath. Moriarty keeps his hands around Moran’s waist for a moment more though. Moran rests his arms on the professor’s shoulders, cradling the back of Moriarty’s head with his right hand. Moriarty smiles at him, amused by Moran’s enthusiasm.

    “I am certain,” he says, “that between us we could always think up new little games to play.”

   “Yes sir,” Moran agrees. “I reckon we could.”

    Moriarty leans forward and gives Moran a quick, sweet peck on the cheek now. “Finish cleaning up then, my dove, and then come and join me in the sitting room.”

 ~

     The professor is reading a book by the lamplight when Moran goes to the sitting room. The flickering light of the fire glints on the gold rims of his reading spectacles as he looks up and beckons to Moran.

    “Come here, sit beside me.” He pats the space on the sofa next to him.

    Moran sits, curling close against Moriarty’s side while Moriarty reads. He doesn’t mind that Moriarty seems more focused on the book than on him, he doesn’t need to make conversation now to feel close to the professor. It is more than enough to know simply that Moriarty values his company, and anyway often the colonel says very little after their more intense games. Perhaps he does not trust himself to speak, knowing that if he does so he may be unable to keep from blurting out something that will prove to be too much for the professor. The bond between them is of a kind where it need not be spoken of aloud; where its expression is always done in the myriad actions and gestures that pass between them, and to try to reduce it to mere words would seem to sour it somehow. So Moran holds his tongue and simply snuggles contentedly against Moriarty’s shoulder, pleased when the professor slips his arm around him and absentmindedly strokes Moran’s side.

    “You know you do not need to stay with me,” the professor remarks, pausing as he turns over a page. “If there is something else you would prefer to do instead…”

    “No Professor, I’d like to stay.”

     And so much of the remainder of the evening passes quietly and companionably, with Moran more than content to do nothing at all while Moriarty reads and the fire burns down in the hearth. Eventually, at Moriarty’s suggestion, Moran does slip off to the kitchen to make them up some hot cocoa. Upon returning with the drinks Moran leans against Moriarty’s side again, his hands wrapped around the mug, savouring the warmth of both the professor and the cocoa.

    At last, when the cocoa has been drunk and the fire is very nearly out, Moriarty puts the ribbon marker in his book and sets first it and then his spectacles aside.

    “We should think about retiring to bed shortly.”

    Moran sits up and stretches himself. “Yes sir.”

    “You might need to go and change the sheets first after our… _activities_ of earlier.” Moriarty smirks slightly at the recollection of those activities, and Moran laughs.

    “Of course, Professor.” Pausing only to stretch again and work out some of the remaining kinks in his muscles caused by his half-lying, half-leaning position, Moran heads upstairs to collect the clean linen and change the bed.

    Moriarty remains downstairs for the moment, as he goes to put his book back in its proper place on the shelf. This done he goes around making sure first that the fire is out, then that the house is securely locked up against any would-be burglars or other intruders (in their more _illegal_ line of work, one can never be too careful; from time to time even one’s trusted allies can turn out to be dangerous foes). Assured of the security of his domain he turns out the lights before heading up the stairs.

    After both men have changed (which for Moriarty means putting on his nightshirt but for Moran means simply removing all his clothing) and prepared for bed once again Moriarty allows Moran to get close to him as they slip between the fresh sheets.

    “Goodnight, pet,” he says, settling comfortably against his pillow, and yawns.

    “Goodnight Professor.” Moran curls against the professor’s side, resting his head over Moriarty’s heart as Moriarty himself drifts off to sleep, and with that soothing and constant beat in his ears, Moran too falls soundly asleep.


	11. Chapter 11

   On Sunday morning Moran awakens early, bright and alert but still with a lingering warm pleasant feeling running through him. He is ready to get out of bed and go to deal with the first chores of the day (and perhaps sneak a crafty cigarette) when the professor stirs beside him and snakes a hand across Moran’s bare chest.

    “Stay a while, chick.” He turns to face Moran, with several loose strands of hair falling over his forehead. “We have the house to ourselves again for all of today; we may as well make the most of this opportunity to remain in bed for a while.”

    Moran, no great lover usually of taking long lie-ins, settles back against the pillows. “You’ve decided to indulge me after all, have you?” He grins slyly.

    “No, but you could stay for a few extra minutes, at least.”

    “Are you _ordering_ me to?” he asks, still grinning.

    Moriarty slips his hand down to Moran’s hip and tugs him closer. “Do I need to?” he enquires with a smile, knowing the answer already; knowing that really Moran wants to stay, that he simply needs to be convinced that it is all right to indulge that want.

    “No, sir.”

    Moriarty smiles with his eyes closed now as he draws Moran into his embrace. “I didn’t think so.”  

 

   It is another half an hour then before Moran does get up. Moriarty watches him from the bed, not yet intending to get up since he is aware Moran needs to sort the fires out first. Moran pads naked around the room to retrieve his dressing gown, looking to Moriarty though first before he puts it on.

   Moriarty waves a hand at him. “Put it on, I cannot have you catching cold, and put your slippers on.” He does observe, before the gown conceals it, the faint marks across Moran’s backside, regarding this with a small pleased smile. As he wishes it there is evidently no lingering damage, just enough of a physical reminder so that Moran cannot forget that Moriarty is his master and as such can discipline him as and when he sees fit to do so.

  

    Moran has never possessed any aversion to getting his hands dirty or performing tasks that seem unfit for a man such as him. Perhaps it remains another small way to get back at his father, to spite Augustus and all his airs and graces and insistence that a man of such good breeding should not even trouble to do so much as open a window himself.

    He hums to himself – some tune he cannot place but that he has probably picked up from some opera or other – while he prepares ham, eggs and toast for their breakfast. When, after finally deciding to get up from the lovely cosy bed, Moriarty quietly comes downstairs wrapped in his dressing gown he cannot resist standing silently to watch Moran for a moment. His companion, his Sebastian, standing over a hot stove merrily humming away while expertly scrambling the eggs in a way that surpasses those made by their excellent housekeeper-cum-cook. It touches Moriarty somehow to see Moran like this, relaxed and contented and so domestic, but he knows that his companion is still truly no domesticated pussy cat. He remains still as spirited and full of fire as the wild tiger, but so completely loyal and devoted to his master.

    The professor clears his throat before advancing into the warmth of the kitchen, not wanting to startle Moran by his apparent sudden appearance, and hoping that Moran was not aware that in reality Moriarty had been there for several seconds and had been regarding him so fondly.

    “Good morning, Sebastian,” he says.

    Moran glances back at him with a small smile as he takes the pan off the heat. “Good morning, Professor. I didn’t think you’d be up still.”

    “I felt no particular inclination towards lazing about in bed any more today.” Moriarty moves to his lover’s side and briefly touches his arm. “Perhaps we might eat in here today? It is so very nice and warm in here.”

    “If you wish, Professor.” Moran does not question Moriarty’s whims, especially when he has no objection to dining in this room. In fact being here stirs some pleasant nostalgic memories of when he was a young lad, hiding out from his father’s temper tantrums in the warm, bustling kitchen of his childhood house (perhaps the only truly warm and homely room in the entire building), with the plump, kindly cook feeding him thick slices of warm fresh bread and honey.

    So he quickly sets the rough wooden table with the cutlery and crockery before pulling out the chair for the professor, seeing that he is seated first. He sets down the food and the pot of tea and jug of milk before finally seating himself.

    “The eggs are done to perfection once again,” Moriarty says after taking a few mouthfuls, noting how Moran bows his head slightly and how the slightest flush creeps into his cheeks. The professor does not believe in needless flattery and fawning but he is a great believer in giving praise where it is due, being well aware that a few words cost nothing but may make a profound impact on one’s underlings’ behaviour and loyalty, and it is still immensely endearing how susceptible to such praise Moran becomes in these periods. “You have surpassed yourself, Sebastian.” Although perhaps he is not only referring to the breakfast now but to Moran’s behaviour of the previous day, where Moriarty was able to gently push Moran further than ever in their games.

    “Thank you sir,” he says, still with his head slightly bowed.

    Moran’s pose is still one of submission but not, Moriarty thinks, of absolute subservience and certainly not of fear. Turning Moran into some manner of slave is not his aim and the idea of having to dictate to Moran everything he must do or not do and control him absolutely does not appeal to him, any more than the notion appeals to Moran. This though is pleasant, to have Moran’s obedience given willingly; to have his submission offered freely and for him to behave as Moriarty’s eager servant as well as his companion.

    Midway through his meal Moriarty cannot help himself from reaching across the table and gently squeezing Moran’s hand, which causes Moran to finally raise his head a little further and look him in the eye.

    “You are all right, Sebastian?” he asks.

   Moran nods and dips his eyes again. “Yes sir.” He forks some of the eggs into his mouth and chews slowly, although there remains the trace of a smile upon his lips.

    “Well then.” Moriarty eats another piece of ham before continuing. “I thought perhaps that after breakfast, after you have cleared up, and of course also after we have washed and dressed, we might take a walk?”

    Moran hesitates. “Just a walk, sir? I mean…”

    “Yes, just a walk; we will not need to take a cab this time.”

    “Then yes sir, I’d like that.”

    “Very good.” It is best, Moriarty has decided, that they not do anything too strenuous today. Apart from the fact that Moriarty himself is no particular lover of many of the physical activities that entertain other men, he wishes to keep Moran close at hand throughout most of the day, not to control him absolutely but so that he may be fully certain that their activities of the previous day have not had any lasting damaging impact upon him. So far he has seen no indication of this, nothing worse than a slight stiffness to Moran’s posture suggestive that he still feels the effects of the caning, but he needs to be sure and with this time to themselves he is able to indulge his concerns as he likes. Still though remaining indoors for the entire day does not appeal. “I think it would benefit neither of us to be cooped up in the house all day.”

    Moran smirks. “I wouldn’t mind being cooped up if you were to do something to take my mind off it.”

   Moriarty ponders this with a sly smile. “Something like set you to work scrubbing every floor in the house, perhaps?”

    “Not that, something that… involves you more.”

    “Well I _could_ sit and watch you scrubbing the floors.”

    Moran throws back his head and laughs. He knows that this is one of those times when he will not get his way, but that’s all right. He did not genuinely expect to.

    “No, my dear Moran.” Moriarty takes Moran’s hand in his and turns it over, palm upwards, tracing his fingertips over what the more _gullible_ might term the life-line. “A walk first, then perhaps a bite to eat. After that… well perhaps you might assist me with sorting through some of my commonplace books. It will be pleasant to be able to organise them without the maid fussing about and wanting to tidy everything away.”

    Moran groans and rolls his eyes.

   “If you are very lucky,” Moriarty says, lifting Moran’s hand to his lips, “I may even allow you to glue the items into the books.” He kisses Moran’s palm, then further along his wrist, which serves to suitably distract Moran from the thought of engaging in such a thoroughly tedious pursuit.

    “Right sir,” he says, his voice sounding a little strangled.

    “Good, now finish your breakfast.” Moriarty drops Moran’s hand, pops the last bit of his egg into his mouth and abruptly gets to his feet, departing the room still chewing, but with a small smile on his face.


	12. Chapter 12

    Daylight diffuses through the fanlight into the hallway, subtly illuminating the passageway. Moriarty strolls briskly through this silvery light, across the tiled floor, pulling on his gloves as he walks. He collects his silver-topped cane from the umbrella stand but as he does so he looks down at his feet and gives a small, rueful sigh.

    “Moran, I fear we may need to delay our departure by a few minutes,” he announces. “My boots look as if they could do with a polish. Perhaps you might do that for me?”

    Moran regards him with narrowed eyes. “Sir…?”

    “As we discussed last night,” Moriarty says, confirming Moran’s suspicions. “Unless you have any particular objection to that?”

    “No sir.” Moran breaks into a grin and drops to his knees before the professor. He dips his head low until his face is a mere inch above the leather of Moriarty’s right shoe. The subtle tang of leather assails his nostrils as he dips his tongue out tentatively, carefully, and runs it over the top of the shoe. He is familiar with the taste of leather from the occasions when Moriarty has held a leather-gloved hand over his mouth or even pushed a gloved finger between Moran’s lips. This is slightly different; there is a subtle waxy taste from past applications of boot polish, but nothing worse. He runs his tongue from the very tip of the boot to below where the laces first cross, then back down to the tip, then changes to a side-to-side motion to cover a greater portion of the leather. Returning his tongue back to the tip, he pauses, still crouching over, and looks up at Moriarty from beneath his lowered brows.

    “Very good, pet.” The professor smiles at him. “Now, the other one?”

    Obediently Moran turns his attention to the left shoe, laving it with his tongue in the same manner as the right. Though focused on his task he is not unaware of the heat pooling in his groin as he laps at the boot, knowing every moment is being intently observed and savoured by the professor above him. He would love right now to reach down and unbutton his trousers, to stroke himself as he licks at the leather, or perhaps to lift his head up and put his mouth to a different use; to undo the professor’s trousers and bury his face in his crotch; to pleasure him with his lips and tongue; to taste the professor’s release once more.

     He does neither of these things. He only uses his hands to brace himself there on the floor while he tongues Moriarty’s boot, and of course he does not deign to try anything more upon Moriarty without permission.

    “Good boy,” Moriarty says softly, and he sounds just the slightest bit hoarse. A flick of Moran’s gaze towards Moriarty’s groin ascertains that the professor is not hard and yet… the look in his eyes is indicative that he is still - in a very real sense - _aroused_ by Moran’s subservience. “Perhaps now you might…” He clears his throat briefly. “Use your handkerchief to polish them?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran drops his gaze as he sets to wiping and buffing the leather with the handkerchief from his jacket pocket. When the shoes are as buffed as he can get them he rocks back to squat on his heels, looking slyly up at Moriarty, awaiting further orders.

    “My, my, Moran.” Moriarty brushes the tip of his cane along Moran’s inner thigh, up the crease where his thigh meets his groin. “You and your insatiable sexual appetites. You are hardly fit to go out in public in that state.” He drags the end of the cane lightly over the front of Moran’s trousers, drawing a small groan out of him. “Whatever shall we do about that, hmm?”

    Moran looks up at him, eyes dark with arousal and a most fetching flush to his face, spreading down his neck. “Sir,” he says, swallowing thickly. “Whatever you think best, sir.”

    “Hmm, let me see, what do I think best?” Moriarty muses, as Moran continues to look up at him, so desperate once more, but so obedient that he will once again decline to touch himself without permission. “Unbutton your trousers, Moran,” he instructs. Well it would be needlessly cruel, he has decided, to delay Moran’s release again today. “Put your hand inside and draw your _cock_ -” He carefully emphasises this word, knowing that such vulgarity always makes an impact upon the colonel. “-out of your underthings.”

    Moran carefully works free the buttons over where his arousal strains at the fabric. Sliding his hand within, inside his drawers, he cups his cock and draws it as far out of his clothing as he can. This done though he merely holds it, resisting the urge to do anything more, and looks up for further instruction.

    “Now,” says Moriarty, “you may stroke yourself.”

    Touching himself feels like an inferior act compared to partnered sexual activity, but having Moriarty standing above him, watching him intently, controlling him still, this gives an added frisson to the proceedings. He groans softly as he strokes himself from root to tip, unthinkingly closing his eyes.

    “Open your eyes, Moran.”

    Moran’s hand stills briefly before, as he looks up at the professor again, he is able to resume his stroking, focusing more on the head of his prick, running his thumb over its opening, spreading the fluid that beads there further over the head. When though, beginning to lose himself in the sensations once again, he unwittingly drops his gaze again, Moriarty gently but firmly presses the tip of his cane under Moran’s chin and lifts his head.

    “I want you to look at me, Sebastian. I want to know you are thinking of me when you touch yourself.”

    “Of course, sir,” he pants.

    “Do you always think of me when you touch yourself?” Moriarty enquires. “On those occasions where you presume that I am not aware of what you are up to?”

    “Yes sir.” Moran’s hand slows a little and he bites his lower lip.

    Moriarty puts his hand to Moran’s face and gently runs his thumb over that bottom lip, coaxing Moran’s lips apart. “Stand up, my dove,” he says in that deceptively soft tone that allows no room for disobedience.

    Moran stands on legs that are slightly shaky, though Moriarty steadies him with a hand upon his arm before nudging Moran back against the wall. Holding Moran’s gaze steadily, he covers the colonel’s hand with his own gloved hand, closing Moran’s fingers around his stiff length and pumping him in a quicker rhythm now.

    “Professor!” Moran gasps. It is fast and rough, almost too much. He cannot last long like this. He clings to the professor’s jacket with his other hand, fingers clenching as the pleasurable sensations build rapidly within him, so that Moriarty can feel Moran’s fingertips digging into his skin even through the multiple layers of clothing.

    “Look at me Moran!” he commands when Moran’s eyes screw shut once more as he nears completion. “That’s my boy, that’s my good boy.” Still with his hand around Moran’s, so that they are stroking Moran’s arousal together, further intensifying the pleasurable pulsations radiating through Moran. “Good boy, now, _come for me_.”

    As if precisely on command Moran reaches the peak, his head tipping forward as he lets out an almost silent cry against Moriarty’s shoulder, his teeth scraping the fabric of the professor’s jacket, his breath stuttering as he spends. His release spatters onto the tiles but he is temporarily oblivious to this, aware only of the professor crooning softly to him:

   “That’s it, that’s my boy, my good Sebastian.”

    For several more seconds he clings tightly onto Moriarty, eyes screwed shut, struggling to catch his breath. As he finally opens his eyes again though his panting gasps turn into a fit of giggling.

    “What?” Moriarty asks gently, still supporting Moran. “What is so amusing?”

    “I’ll have to clean the bloody floor now,” Moran says between bursts of laughter.

    Moriarty laughs even though he does not entirely see what is so amusing about this. Evidently Moran’s orgasm has caused him to find hilarity in the simplest things. “Yes, I suppose you will.” He regards the faint smudges of dust on the knees of Moran’s trousers. “You had better straighten yourself up too. I cannot have you accompanying me in public looking slovenly, or indeed-” He presses his face close to speak directly into the shell of Moran’s ear, in a low mellifluous tone, “-so _post-coital_.”

    Moran abruptly ceases laughing and swallows. “Of course… Professor.” He is very glad he has already climaxed for Moriarty’s voice alone would probably push him close to the edge were it not so soon after his last orgasm. He hurriedly tucks himself into his trousers.

   “Very good; do not take long.”


	13. Chapter 13

   Moran wipes the floor quickly but efficiently, making sure to remove all evidence of their wicked games from the black and white tiles. This done it is off to properly rearrange his clothing and to brush the marks from his trouser knees. He scrutinises himself in the mirror for a few seconds, wondering if there is a bit more grey in his beard now than the last time he troubled to look closely.

   “Moran!” Moriarty calls to him in a strident tone. “Are you coming?”

   “I’m coming.” Moran hurries downstairs, buttoning his overcoat as he goes.

   “You had best bring an umbrella, the sky does seem to be clouding over.”

    After shoving his hat onto his head, Moran snatches up an umbrella before following Moriarty out of the door. There he must wait while Moriarty locks the door. He rests both of his hands upon the umbrella's handle, using it temporarily as a cane to lean upon while he waits. He glances up at the sky. It is indeed turning rather grey and cloudy, he notes, an ominous sign particularly to him when he utterly despises rain.

    “Come along then, chick; we shall not go too far.” Moriarty links his arm through Moran’s and they stroll down the front steps, out into the street. It is relatively quiet out with much less traffic, both pedestrian and horse-drawn, than on other days of the week. No doubt the overcast skies are sending other people indoors too. “It will do us good to have a breath of, well, not exactly _fresh_ air, but air nonetheless,” he remarks.

    Moran grimaces, not truly convinced of the benefits of breathing the London air which smells largely of coal-smoke and horse-shit or (for a little variety) coal-smoke, horse-shit and the whiff off the river and its mud closer to the Thames, although true he would not like to remain in the house all day.

   “Perhaps another weekend we shall go out to the country, or to the sea-side,” Moriarty says. “The air there would be much better.”

    “It still smells of shit out in the country though,” Moran points out, carefully avoiding stepping in a pile of the offending substance as they cross the street. “There you get plenty more cow-shit to add to the aroma of horse-shit.”

    “And I thought you were so fond of horses,” Moriarty remarks.

    “I _do_ like horses; doesn’t mean I like their shit.” Moran is indeed a highly capable horseman, when given the opportunity to ride. Those opportunities have been rather infrequent in recent times (something which does concern Moriarty, who is aware that the colonel was obliged to leave his own horses behind in India) but still the professor has noted how Moran will often give a pat or a kind word to carriage and cab horses. Unlike many men too Moran was always willing to tend to his animals himself, not thinking it beneath him to curry the animals’ coats or to shovel their droppings. But now in London he does hate just how much manure there is on the streets.

    “Well, at least if we were to go out to the country it would give you greater opportunity to ride,” Moriarty points out now. “It is something to consider for another time, is it not?”

   “Yes sir, I’d like that.” Moran though would probably be willing to go anywhere on earth so long as he was accompanying the professor there. He shivers suddenly as he feels the first drops of rain plop down on the back of his neck.

   “Ah, here it comes,” Moriarty remarks, glancing up at the sky.

   Moran puts up the umbrella, carefully holding it between them so that it can sufficiently cover both of them if Moriarty presses close to him just so. This, despite the damp and the chill in the air, feels rather pleasant to Moran. Although two seemingly-respectable male friends walking arm-in-arm is hardly frowned upon, he is suddenly glad that the rain and the umbrella has given them an excuse to press that bit tighter together than might be deemed quite proper under ordinary circumstances. Close to Moriarty like this he can turn his head and inhale the scent of the professor’s hair oil and the subtlest hint of cologne.

   “You have not yet grown weary of submitting to me, have you?” Moriarty asks as they stroll onwards through the rain.

   “Not at all.” Moran hesitates as a thought occurs to him. “Sir,  _you_ haven’t grown bored of me, have you? I mean… spending all this time with me.” He knows that the professor, even more than him, likes his own space and time to be alone. For them to spend such a great length of time in almost constant close proximity is highly unusual.

   Moriarty glances at him under the shade of the umbrella. “Of course not. Sebastian, it was my decision to give us this time to ourselves and I do not regret that decision, nor do I intend to waste what time remains by dismissing you from my presence.” He gives Moran’s arm a brief squeeze. “No doubt more than a few days of such constant close companionship would begin to irk us both and leave the pair of us craving a little solitude, but a couple of days… no, it is most enjoyable to have this time with you.” He notes the pleased flush that infuses Moran’s cheeks in a most becoming manner and has to resist the urge to kiss him. It will not do to yield to such temptations in public, he knows that, but he does experience a brief pang of regret that it must be so. He is saved from further such mawkish thoughts though by Moran speaking.

   “What will we be having for dinner tonight?” At Moriarty’s request Moran had left it up to Moriarty to arrange what food would be delivered for them and has up until now not troubled to wonder what they will be eating later.

    “It should be a chicken fricassee,” the professor replies. “I hope it will be rather splendid.”

    “Don’t you feel bad for eating chicken, when you like pigeons so much?” Moran wonders aloud.

    “Chickens and pigeons are not especially alike.”

    “They’re both birds.”

    “Pigeons are much more elegant and capable of prolonged flight, and I believe they are much more intelligent.”

    “So you only want to eat dull-witted animals?”

    “I wish to eat creatures that taste good,” Moriarty says. “Just not pigeons.”

    Moran chuckles. That the professor should have such an illogical affection for those particular feathered creatures will never cease to amuse him.

    “Look at them, Moran,” Moriarty remarks, glancing across the street. There a man of middling age with rather impressive side-whiskers scurries along, head bowed, collar pulled up, evidently wanting to get out of the rain as quickly as possible.

    “Who? Him?”

    “ _People_ , Moran.” The professor gently draws Moran closer against the wall of the building they are passing as a cab trots smartly past, the horse’s hooves flicking up muddy water. “Does it ever strike you how tedious they are?”

    “Frequently, sir.” Moran says this absolutely without irony.

    “Of course there are many fascinating individuals – present company included. There are enough innovators and pioneers - those who are able to think outside of a rigid and yet utterly arbitrary structure of thinking imposed upon them by society - to make life that bit more intriguing.”

    Moran deliberately bites back the urge to say, _“Holmes?”_ He cannot remain oblivious to how much the meddling detective interests the professor, but he will not sully their private time together by even mentioning that busybody’s name.

    “But on the whole,” Moriarty continues, “what a dull, predictable lot they are.”

    “That they are.”

    “Are you cold, pet?” Moriarty suddenly eyes Moran with some concern. “You are shivering.”

    “I’m all right.”

    “We shall go a little further then, and then we shall return home.”


	14. Chapter 14

   They continue on, the professor leading the conversation which rambles through a variety of topics, from the works of Schubert to the use of trained cormorants in fishing (“It makes me ponder whether birds may be trained for other purposes,” he remarks. “Ones that would better suit us, my dear Moran.”) to alternating current versus direct current.

    When at last they reach their home again the rain has just about ceased. As Moran folds the umbrella closed he notes that there is a small figure seated on their front step. The boy stands up as soon as he sees them.

    “Colonel,” he says, nodding at the pair. “Professor.” It’s Tommy, the young lad who lives in the local area and runs errands for them. “I got your bread and the rest.” He indicates a covered basket on the step beside him. “I didn’t get no answer so I thought to wait a few minutes.”

   “That is most obliging of you, thank you,” the professor says, advancing up the steps. “Colonel, bring the basket into the house.”

   “I can manage it, sir,” says Tommy.

  “No, let Moran do it,” Moriarty insists as he unlocks the door. “Physical exertion will do him good.” Behind him Moran hefts the surprisingly heavy basket.

   “Christ, what’s in this, bloody bricks?” Moran remarks as the three of them enter the hallway. Once inside he dumps the wet umbrella into the umbrella stand.

   “Mam sent over a couple of ‘er fruitcakes for you, seein’ as the prof was so fond of ‘em last time,” Tommy answers.

   “That’s very kind of your mother, please give her my warmest regards,” says Moriarty. “You must be soaked through though, you poor boy.”

   “I’m all right, sir.” Tommy wipes his nose with the back of his sleeve.

   “You don’t wish to come inside properly and dry off? Colonel Moran could make you a cup of tea also.”

   “No sir, thank you sir, I ‘ave to get back and ‘elp mam with the twins.”

   “You’re sure?”

   “Yes sir.”

   “Very well.” Moriarty fishes in his pocket and produces some coins which he places into Tommy’s hand. “Give these to your mother for her troubles, and this is a little something extra for you.” He presses a further half-crown into the boy’s palm.

   “Thank you sir!” Tommy exclaims.

   “And don’t blow it all on sweets lad, they’ll rot your teeth,” Moran calls after him as Tommy backs out of the hallway.

  “No sir I won’t. Bye then!” Tommy darts away with a level of boyish enthusiasm and speed which makes Moriarty smile and Moran grimace.

   “Dunno what he’s got to be so enthusiastic about,” the colonel remarks. He hangs his overcoat on its hook in the hall before starting to carry the basket towards the kitchen. “I’ve seen where he lives.”

   “He is a young boy of the lower classes who has a roof over his head, decent food in his belly and a little extra to spend on frivolities, which puts him far ahead of countless other members of his class.” After hanging up his coat and hat and setting his cane back in the umbrella stand, Moriarty pulls off his gloves as he follows Moran. “He is entitled to be enthusiastic.”

   “Yeah, I s’pose.”

   “I do admire his spirit.”

   Moran half-turns and eyes Moriarty with a grin. “Do you admire  _my_ spirit, sir?”

   “Always, Moran.”

   “And my arse? Do you admire that too?” Moran’s grin becomes even broader.

   Moriarty sighs, rolls his eyes and sharply snaps his leather gloves against the portion of anatomy in question. “Get along with you.”

   Moran, laughing, makes his way into the kitchen at last with Moriarty bringing up the rear. The professor pointedly tries to ignore Moran’s slightly exaggerated wiggling of his hips and  _derriere_ as he walks.

   “I am going to change my clothes for some that are a little drier,” he says. “You should do the same.” The umbrella and their overcoats did keep the worst of the rain off them but his lower trousers are still rather damp from water splashing up off the pavement and road, and so are Moran’s.

   “Why get changed into fresh togs?” Moran says nonchalantly. “We could just stay naked.” He laughs again.

   “I think not.”

  “Why not? There’s no-one else in the house to see us; won’t be 'til tomorrow afternoon.”

   Moriarty tries hard not to laugh, pressing his lips into a tight line to suppress his amusement. “Go and get changed,” he says firmly. “And then you might see about putting together a light lunch for us? Just some bread, cheese and whatever else you think best.”

    “Hmm, all right.” Obviously this notion does not appeal to Moran quite as much as the idea of spending the rest of the day naked with Moriarty. He acquiesces though, because remaining in his damp trousers is not exactly appealing. Both change their clothing, Moran for merely a slightly older, not quite so pristine version of the same suit he wore to go out for their stroll, Moriarty for a lighter and less formal tweed suit. Moran sets their damp clothing out to dry off and then saunters off to the kitchen again.

   There he prepares some good thick slices of fresh bread and butter along with a large chunk of cheese. Upon investigating the pantry further to see what else there might be that is suitable for a light meal he locates some mysterious substance that does not look especially appetising. After tentatively sniffing it and sticking his finger in it to taste it though he ascertains that it is actually a perfectly decent chutney, so he adds some of that too. He finishes with a couple of apples and some of Tommy’s mother’s fruitcake for the professor, along with a pot of tea. Carefully he carries everything to the sitting room where Moriarty stands warming his hands before the fire.

   “Perhaps,” Moriarty says idly, as Moran pours the tea, “I should make you eat your food from a bowl on the floor, like a good pet.”

   Moran does not lift his gaze from his teacup. “If you like, sir.”

  “Hm, well, perhaps since you are a very  _spoilt_ pet… perhaps I might let you sit at my feet while I feed you titbits.”

  Now it is Moran’s turn to press his lips together tightly, barely concealing a smirk. “If you wish, sir.”

   “Go on then, sit there.” Moriarty presses Moran down to sit on the floor in front of him. “Be a good boy and do not snatch.” He places a piece of bread and butter before Moran’s mouth. Moran takes a neat bite of it, his gaze fixed on Moriarty’s all the while.

   It’s a dare - daring him to demurely accept this seemingly demeaning act without protesting that it is beneath him. He submits though not merely because it is a dare and he can never resist those but because it gives him pleasure to be so near to the professor, with his face so close against Moriarty’s knee. When Moriarty feeds him a morsel of cheese he briefly brushes his lips against Moriarty’s fingers too. If anyone else was to witness this act between them it would be perhaps the ultimate humiliation but in private it seems much more profound somehow.

    Moriarty feeds him more of the bread and butter, then another piece of cheese, this time with a little of the chutney upon it, watching Moran’s jaw work; noticing how his throat bobs as he swallows each mouthful. It makes him think briefly of some of their other games, with Moran’s mouth around his prick; the warmth and wetness of it; watching Moran’s throat then as he swallows the professor’s release without demur. Pleasant recollections indeed.

   He eats the remainder of his second slice of bread thoughtfully, becoming aware after a few seconds that Moran, though his head is bowed, is watching him still.

   “You have been good, pet,” the professor says, patting the seat beside him. “You may come and sit beside me to drink your tea.”

   “What were you thinking about?” Moran asks as he gets up. “I mean, if I may be so bold as to ask, sir.”

   “You may, and it was you I was thinking of.” Moriarty turns Moran’s face towards his and kisses him gently upon the forehead.

   “What about me?”

   “Just… of you in some of our games of yesterday; how attractive you looked.” He trails his hand down Moran’s face before dropping it to pat Moran’s thigh gently. “Drink your tea before it goes cold.”

   Moran sips the tea from the cup with surprising delicacy, and Moriarty would swear that he is smiling around the cup’s rim as he drinks.

   The professor eats a piece of fruitcake in easy silence whilst Moran takes an apple and uses his pocketknife to peel it.

   “You should eat the peel, it is better for you,” Moriarty remarks.

   “I prefer it without.” Moran continues carving off the peel, succeeding in removing it in one long unbroken piece.

  “I believe there is a superstition, is there not, whereby if one succeeds in peeling the apple in one go and throws the peel over one’s shoulder, it will fall into the shape of the initial of one’s true love.”

   Moran laughs. “What do you care for superstition?”

  “I do not care; it was merely something I heard the servants discussing one day.” Moriarty takes another bite of cake.

    “Stuff and nonsense.” Moran, still laughing, eyes Moriarty for a moment, before he shrugs and throws the peel over his shoulder, right over the back of the sofa.

   “Well?” Moriarty enquires, glancing over the sofa’s back as Moran scrambles to scrutinise the peel better.

    “It’s just a meaningless squiggle, that’s all.” Moran reaches down to snatch up the peel. His face seems slightly flushed suddenly. “Don’t even look like a letter.”

   “Well, get on with eating your apple then.” Moriarty smiles a thin-lipped smile and pointedly does not comment on the fact that the peel most certainly resembled a letter J. As Moran says, it is all stuff and nonsense.


	15. Chapter 15

      They come creeping in bit by bit, barely noticed at first, but while he is tidying up and lacking Moriarty’s _extremely_ close company they become stronger – the little doubts, the niggling fears. Moriarty is not, as it transpires, engaged in sorting out his commonplace books – seemingly he was merely joking about getting Moran to help him with that. He has instead returned to reading, inviting Moran to sit with him if he wished. This time though Moran preferred not to remain so idle, though perhaps this has proven to be a mistake. He has tidied away a few things upstairs, then cleaned and polished his own and Moriarty’s boots (in the more conventional manner this time), removing the slight traces of mud that lingered on them from their earlier walk and once more buffing them to a nice sheen.

    Now as Moran passes the sitting room door as he returns from putting away the shoe polish he catches sight of Moriarty sitting engrossed in reading and wonders again what the professor sees in him. The professor is into his books and his theories and his sums and formulae, things that can’t hold Moran’s interest; things that go right over his head. When he sits in on one of the professor’s classes he’s more likely to be staring at Moriarty’s backside than grasping a word of what the professor is on about. Moran knows he is not stupid himself, but his intelligence is unlike the professor’s; it’s inferior to his. What on earth does Moriarty see in him? Moreover… what the hell is a man like him doing submitting to a man like the professor when the professor deserves so much better?

  _Stop it._

   He tries to will these thoughts away. He needs distraction, to keep his mind busy. He turns away from the sitting room without re-entering it; he shouldn’t keep on pestering the professor anyway when he’s obviously content by himself. There are some plates and cups to be put away in the kitchen so he turns his attention to that, trying to keep his mind from playing back the things his father once spat at him in a fury.

  _“You unnatural beast.”_

   The plates rattle as he puts them in the cupboard. His hands are shaking so much.

     _“You are disgusting and depraved.”_

    Moran tugs his hand through his hair and breathes heavily. He is normally so good at keeping himself controlled, contained, in check, but now…

     _“You are no son of mine_.”

    He picks up the cup and goes to put this back in its place but-

     _“I am glad your mother is in her grave so she cannot see what a disgrace you are!”_

   -he misjudges the distance and the cup falls from his hand, down to shatter on the tiles, and Moran remembers…

     _Broken crockery, smashed glass, spilled food on the floor, red wine staining the carpet like blood, like the_ _blood that drips from his nose after the blow that sent him reeling into the dinner table, and his father looking down at him, fierce blue eyes blazing, dragging Sebastian up by the hair to snarl into his face, “You are worthless!”_

 “Sebastian?”

     Several seconds pass before he hears the voice and recognises it for what it is, his professor’s voice. He looks up.

    “Sebastian, what are you doing on the floor?”

    But he cannot remember; he does not recall retreating into the corner behind the table and crouching there, his head in his hands.

    Moriarty approaches cautiously. To walk in on this, a cup smashed on the floor and his right hand man, his _lover_ , cowering in the corner, it is as incongruous as if he has just walked in to find a wild animal which has somehow trapped itself in his kitchen.

    Moran stands abruptly and makes to barge past the professor.

    “Sebastian, stop.” Moriarty quite deliberately does not touch him yet; he does not even utter these words in a particularly loud tone, but it has a powerful effect on Moran nonetheless.

    The colonel’s every instinct is to run far away, but when the professor commands him still he is powerless to disobey. He freezes, so close to Moriarty but facing away from him, every sinew and muscle straining to keep it that way as Moriarty gently tries to draw him around to face him. Face to face with him at last though he still cannot bring himself to lift his head or raise his eyes.

    “Tell me what’s wrong, pigeon.” Moriarty puts his hand to Moran’s cheek, trying to coax him to lift his head up. When he succeeds in this he is surprised to see tears in Moran’s eyes.

    “Everything’s wrong; _I’m_ wrong.”

    “Because you dropped a cup?”

    “No, not because of a fucking cup! Because… I’m not good enough for you.”

    “Nonsense.”

    “I’m not good enough for anything. I weren’t good enough for my father, nor for the army. I am worthless.”

    “Nonsense.”

    “I’m _weak_.”

    “Don’t you _dare_.” Moriarty grips him by the chin and practically yanks Moran’s face close to his. “Listen to me, Sebastian. Would I have employed a weak man? Let a weak man get close to me? Taken him to my bed night after night? Entrusted _everything_ to him?” When Moran wrenches himself free of Moriarty’s hold though, unable to bear such intense scrutiny, he is forced to let him go, although he steps firmly into the doorway, blocking Moran’s escape. “Good god, Moran.” He runs his hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you really doubt my judgement on this?”

    “No sir, I don’t doubt you.”

    “Then how can you believe you are so weak and worthless when I am telling you that you are so strong, that you are worth so much?”

    “Because… because… _I don’t know!_ ” Unable to escape without risking harming the professor, Moran throws himself into the nearest chair. There, resting his elbows upon the table, he buries his face in his hands.

    “Sebastian… the things we did yesterday, do you not want to do them again?”

    “No!” Moran’s gaze snaps up to meet Moriarty’s momentarily. “I mean… it’s not that. Yesterday was… it was like nothing I’ve felt before. I felt… I felt wonderful, by the end of it. Afterwards, this morning even, I still felt that. It’s just… now I realise… it was just an illusion - the idea that I could ever be good enough for you.”

    “For god’s sake, Moran.” There is a brief flicker of anger across Moriarty’s face, in his eyes, but he takes a deep breath, forcing himself to become calmer and more composed. Losing his temper with Moran is not the answer to this, as much as it infuriates him to hear Moran demean himself so. “You are good enough. You are the one person on this earth who I trust and value and have chosen to be my companion, no-one else.” He moves to stand behind Moran’s chair. “You are not weak, you are not worthless.” He rubs Moran’s back gently.

    “I am.”

    “No, you are not.” Moriarty moves to pull over a second chair, enabling him to sit almost directly in front of Moran. “I have a theory on your present state of mind. It may not be entirely accurate but with the data available I think the hypothesis is sound. Moran…” He leans forward and grips Moran’s hand. “The way you looked yesterday, you looked blissful, serene – almost as if you had been drugged. Well with certain narcotics there are highs, and then afterwards there are the lows. Or even simple alcohol – surely you must know how merry you can become when you have drunk a great deal of alcohol, but then a little while later the pleasant feelings may wear off and leave you feeling absolutely wretched – you shift from the high to the low. If what you experienced yesterday during the latter stages of our little game was the high, then we may take it that what you now feel is, unfortunately, the inevitable low.”

    Moran snorts in dissatisfaction and looks away.

    “But if that is the case then the low will pass; things will level out again shortly. The negative effects of too much alcohol consumption do not linger for long, now do they? Furthermore I suspect that…” Moriarty clears his throat as he ponders how to express this. “Our games of yesterday perhaps laid bare certain thoughts and emotions.”

    “Yes, and made me see the truth, that I’m weak and unworthy.” Moran pulls his hand from the professor’s hold and crosses his arms, wrapping them around himself.

    “No, Sebastian.” Moriarty hesitates, uncertain as to the wisdom of revealing too much to Moran, even though Moran already knows him better than anyone else in the world. Where others may think the professor oddly inhuman in many regards, the colonel knows that he is indeed human, with passions and emotions and fears. Still, to show what depths his passions and emotions and fears may possess still troubles him. “Moran, pigeon, I cannot say that I experienced what you experienced yesterday – for some while you were indeed so far gone that you looked like a man under the influence of some kind of narcotic. However, what occurred between us… For you to put yourself into such a position, to submit to me so absolutely…” He clears his throat. “Even I was profoundly moved by that.”

    Moran stares at him, then turns away again, narrowing his eyes.

    “You trust me, don’t you?” Moriarty asks.

    “Of course I do.”

    “Then you must know I would not try to deceive you. I have seen in the past how occasionally you recollect something of your past, often something your father has said or done to you, but my dove you cannot keep confusing your father’s ill-treatment of you with my feelings towards you, nor can you allow him to continue to shape your opinions of yourself.” The professor does know that Moran generally has a high opinion of himself and his talents, such that he may sometimes come across as boastful and cocksure. But he also knows how much of this is a front, masking the man’s deep-seated insecurities - insecurities which tend to reveal themselves at times of great stress or of great emotion. Moran’s confidence was badly knocked when he was cast out of the army and despite all of Moriarty’s best efforts, it has been occasionally shaken since by his further run ins with Sir Augustus Moran. He should have realised that their game of the day before might be sufficient to open the gates now, causing all that self-doubt to bubble to the surface.

    “He always said I was abnormal,” Moran says bitterly, gazing off into space. “And this is not normal, is it? Me a grown man, a fucking _colonel_ , submitting to you, wanting to be fucked and humiliated and hurt, even.” He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulling out his tobacco tin and cigarette papers. A habit of old, one that the professor does not entirely approve of, but he needs something to do with his hands and to steady his nerves.

    “What do I care about normality?” Moriarty spits out, rising from his chair. “Do you think _anything_ about our life is normal?” He laughs sharply. “Do you forget how we earn our money, Moran? Normality is tedious, repetitive and uninteresting. Normal people do not interest me one jot. Out of all the countless people I have encountered in my life, you are absolutely unique. It is a rare thing indeed to find someone who is not only willing to submit but to admit that this is so, and furthermore… to find this within someone upon whom I may also rely professionally _and_ whose private companionship I value. No you are not normal Moran, and that is why I cherish you so. I would not change you for the world. _Sebastian…_ ” He puts his hand to Moran’s cheek once more. “It is not and never has been my intention to make you unhappy. If you no longer wish to participate in our little games I would not hold that against you, but you must see, there is nothing intrinsically wrong about those games and your submission… it is not an indication of weakness within you but a sign of your inner strength. Do you not see that?”

    Moran does not look up from rolling his cigarette as he shakes his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t...” But perhaps there is a change in his expression, further doubts creeping in, not doubting the professor so much as doubting his own beliefs that he is so wrong.

    “When your every natural instinct is screaming at you to fight, or to flee, and yet you stay, you submit, you put yourself in a position where you could be seriously harmed, even killed… that takes such strength and fortitude.”

    Moran slumps his shoulders and looks away again, screwing his face up in a brief expression of distaste. He slips the finished cigarette between his lips and lights it.

   Moriarty sighs. Putting a hand to his head he massages his left temple. This isn’t what he wanted; he wishes things could return to the way they were yesterday evening, when Moran looked so happy and at peace, or even this morning when he was still so relaxed. “Perhaps I cannot convince you now how strong and how very precious you are,” he says, “but this will pass; what you are experiencing now, it will pass and then you will see it.” He goes to Moran again, putting his hands on Moran’s shoulders, feeling the tension there. “Come and sit with me, in the sitting room.”

    “I need to clear that up.” Moran nods towards the broken cup.

    “Leave the cup; we shall sort it out later.” In Moran’s present state of mind Moriarty would prefer not to have him handling sharp slivers of china, just in case. “Come along.” He holds out his hand to the colonel, waiting patiently until at last Moran reaches out to him and lets Moriarty take his hand, allowing the professor to lead him quietly from the room.


	16. Chapter 16

   Ordinarily Moriarty would not be keen on allowing Moran to smoke his cigarettes in the sitting room but on this occasion he feels that he can allow it. He sits on one side of the sofa, Moran sits on the other, close but still somehow seeming very far away from him.

    “Am I such an ogre, Moran, that you feel you cannot confide in me?” he asks.

    Moran, smoking still, eyes him warily. “No sir.”

    “If you are unhappy, pet, and certainly if anything we do together causes that unhappiness…”

    “It wasn’t that, Professor; it isn’t you.”

    “Still… I must know of it; you have to tell me, otherwise I cannot help you.”

    “I didn’t…” Moran swallows, then takes a long pull on his cigarette before exhaling a stream of smoke. “I didn’t want you to know.”

   “Moran.” Moriarty gently turns Moran’s face towards his once again. “I _must_ know. I do not truly insist upon very much of you, now do I? But on this I will be firm. When you are hurting, when you are suffering, I need to know of it.”

   Moran looks away, noticeably failing to either agree or disagree to this. He takes another pull on his cigarette.

    Moriarty looks at the cigarette in Moran’s hand as he withdraws it from between his lips momentarily. It shakes, subtly but noticeable enough to one who is looking, who has felt Moran’s slight trembling also when he put his hands upon his shoulders and when he led him in here. Moran’s posture too is stiff and unyielding. He evidently does not want to be held, or more likely he feels that he cannot permit himself such things – that he does not deserve such compassion and kindness. There is such hurt radiating from him, and shame – not only at his own perceived weakness but that he has slipped up so badly that he drew the professor’s attention to it.

   “Sit with me awhile, Sebastian,” Moriarty says softly. He thinks it prudent not to leave Moran alone at present.

   “I don’t want to intrude on your reading.” Moran has noticed the book on the floor, set there seemingly when Moriarty came to check upon him after hearing the cup shatter. Had the professor finished with the book rather than being interrupted he would have placed it on the shelf or at least on the table, surely.

    “You are _not_ intruding on anything. This weekend was meant to be about the two of us spending time together, remember?” Moriarty sighs faintly. “I had thought maybe you might not wish to spend every moment in my company. Perhaps I should have simply ordered you to stay by my side however. _Sebastian_.” Since Moran will not move closer to him, Moriarty moves closer to Moran. When he slides his arm around Moran, when he draws him closer, Moran is still rigid with tension, although Moriarty can feel him very subtly lean into his hold, not away from him. It is enough to convince him of the soundness of his theory that Moran does want such contact, he merely thinks himself undeserving of it. “ _Mein liebchen_ , vulnerability and weakness are two separate things.” He has come to realise that since taking Moran as his constant companion; where once he thought sentiment and emotions were weaknesses he grasps now that they are not. They _are_ vulnerabilities, perhaps. To develop any softer feelings for Moran may well give Moriarty a vulnerable point that might be exploited by a rival, but it is not a weakness to care for someone and to nurture and protect them and to gain their support and protection in return. “You have a vulnerable part of you, Moran; all of us do, even if it pains some of us to admit to it.” He smiles grimly for a moment as he absently strokes Moran’s side. “But that does _not_ make you weak, and confiding in me does not make you weak either. You have trusted me with so much – with your very life. Therefore it makes little sense to keep your troubles and concerns to yourself.”

    Moran takes a last pull on his cigarette before throwing the stub into the fireplace. “I don’t want to… to trouble you.”

    “Sebastian, I am telling you that I want you to confide in me when you are upset, as I hope that I may confide in you when there is something on my mind.” Moriarty brushes a strand of hair off Moran’s forehead. “Why would I say these things to you if I was not prepared to shoulder your troubles and try to relieve your burden where I can?” Moriarty continues to stroke Moran’s side. He can feel that bit by bit Moran is starting to yield, losing a little of his resistance. He _wants_ to believe the professor, that he is not weak; that he is worthy of the professor’s attention and his concern, even if he does not believe it.

    Moriarty does know full well largely what Moran thinks of when he has a bad reaction. From time to time Moran has recalled something of the war, visions of death and destruction from a foreign battlefield, but primarily it is his father who haunts his recollections - not the frail elderly man of today but the loud drunken bully of Moran’s childhood. If it is not his actions Moran recalls then it is his words, words that Moran has unwittingly perhaps come to internalise and therefore to perceive – incorrectly – as being his own ideas and attitudes towards himself, when in fact they are deeply contradictory to his own thoughts.

    The professor does not intend to force a confession out of Moran as to what he was thinking about when he found him in the kitchen looking so frightened – he knows that to do so would surely have a detrimental effect, if not now then when this dip in Moran’s mood passes. But he does not need to force a confession either to know that it was some childhood memory Moran was thinking of, and not a pleasant one. _I should have known this would happen and allowed for it_ , he thinks _._

   “I fear that I have erred,” he admits at last. Still a rare thing this, to hear Professor Moriarty admit to his mistakes (not wholly unheard of, for how will one ever learn from one’s mistakes if one cannot admit to them? But even so, still rare). “I failed to fully account for the negative effect our games might have upon you. I have noticed before that you tend to become somewhat subdued after some of our games.” Although he has never before seen Moran sink quite so low after one of their private diversions, but their game of yesterday was far more intense than anything that has gone before.

    Now Moran stares at him, startled by this admission. “No, sir, it’s my fault.”

    “ _Nothing_ is your fault,” Moriarty says sharply. “Sebastian, if I pushed you too far-”

    “No, sir.” Moran sits up straighter and shakes his head firmly. “I wanted it, I _still_ want that. I just…”

    “Just what?”

    “Don’t think I deserve it – _you_.”

    Moriarty sighs once more, sensing the futility of arguing with Moran while he is in this present frame of mind. Better to speak to him with actions, not mere words. He slips his hand around the back of Moran’s head, pushing his fingers through Moran’s hair, but he simply holds him there, looking at him, remembering how when the colonel was at his most vulnerable during their games, how strong his own desire was to protect Moran from harm. Now despite the shift of scene nothing has fundamentally changed. It still seems strange to him that he should find himself capable of feeling such a thing – he went so long without experiencing anything of the kind – but still he feels that protective urge towards his companion.

    “My dear Sebastian.” He gently pulls Moran’s head towards his and kisses him softly upon the forehead. That Moran at least does not try to pull away must surely be a positive sign. “Stay with me a while longer; I would value your company.”

    “I’m not good company, sir.”

    “Allow me to be the judge of that, hmm? I would like you here with me.”

    At this last statement Moran slumps against the professor, all the fight gone out of him. He cannot argue with what Moriarty desires, even if he believes that he himself does not have a right to enjoy the professor’s companionship. “Right sir,” he says.


	17. Chapter 17

     It is actually rather enjoyable, Moriarty thinks, to sit doing nothing very much at all, simply holding Moran while the clock steadily ticks on and the fire crackles in the hearth. On most occasions there would be other matters requiring his urgent attention but today his full focus may be given over to his companion and there is something pleasing about this notion and about doing so little, savouring Moran’s close proximity, despite the most recent circumstances that led them to be sitting here like this.

     Moran’s breathing has slowed and a large portion of the tension has seeped from him. It leads Moriarty to hope that the real crisis has passed, enabling him to think that even if Moran has not yet returned to his relaxed, happy state of this morning then at least his thoughts are no longer quite so dark and violent as they were in the kitchen.

    “Sebastian,” he says at last, still idly stroking Moran’s side.

    “Yes sir?”

    “I think next month I would like to take a short holiday.” Their idle conversation of earlier has made him reflect that a seaside holiday could be very enjoyable. Although it is not quite the proper season for it if one hopes to enjoy the finest weather or wishes to bathe in the sea without freezing one’s extremities off, Moriarty has always found his holidays more agreeable when he is not surrounded by heaving throngs of other holidaymakers. Perhaps it will be beneficial too for Moran to have something in the near future to focus upon.

    “Right sir.” Moran’s tone remains rather flat.

    “With you, of course.” Moriarty realises that it is important to clarify this for Moran’s sake, otherwise the colonel may be liable to think that he is to be left behind and worse, that he is fully deserving of this.

    “Right sir.”

    “What would you think of a trip to Bournemouth? I have heard good things of it.”

    “I don’t know sir, I’ve never been.”

    “Well, perhaps you could look into it for me next week?”

    “Right Professor.”

    Despite Moran’s seeming lack of enthusiasm, Moriarty is sure that the colonel will set about this research with diligence. Moran is his right hand man in every sense, entrusted with everything from carrying out assassinations to taking the professor’s packages to the post office and he carries out all of his assigned tasks with the appropriate thoroughness and care.

    “Thank you Moran,” the professor says softly.

 

~

 

    Dinner is a much more subdued affair than that of the previous evening. The silences now are somewhat strained and heavy. The chicken brought over by the restaurant staff this evening is just as delicious and as perfectly cooked as the beef of yesterday but even Moriarty’s enthusiasm for the meal has diminished. Moran meanwhile only picks and pokes at his food with his fork.

   “I’m sorry,” he says at last, dropping his fork onto his plate with a clatter and putting his hands together in his lap.

  “For what?”

  “For smashing the cup; for my outburst. I shouldn’t… I don’t… I do trust you, sir.”

  “I know that, Sebastian.” Moriarty thinks again of Moran yesterday, how beautiful he looked when he was desperate and entirely at Moriarty’s mercy, and how much trust it took for Moran to put himself in that position. He takes a sip of wine.

   “Punish me,” Moran says quietly. “Please.”

   Moriarty stares at him over the rim of the wineglass. “For what?”

   “For taking  _his_ word over yours.” There is no need for Moran to clarify precisely who he means by  _his_ – there is only one man he speaks of with such venom in his tone. “For doubting myself. I deserve to be punished for that.”

   “No.” Moriarty calmly sets down his glass and picks up his knife and fork once more. “I will not punish you for experiencing doubt.”

   “Then punish me for breaking the cup!”

   “No. It was an accident of no consequence. If you are so bothered about such a trifle then you may go and buy a replacement out of your own pocket next week. Other than that, forget about the cup.”

    “Then punish me for _something_!” Moran cries. “Please!”

    “ _No!_ ” Moriarty’s cold implacable fury is there one instant, gone the next. When he next speaks his voice is calm and measured. “No, Sebastian. We may play our little games but _this_ , this is no mere game. This concerns our very lives; our wellbeing; our happiness. I will not toy with that.” He knows that if he does punish Moran now then Moran will pay no heed to his own limits - he will push himself and push himself to take more and more, to bear such a weight of suffering on his shoulders that it might ultimately crush him, perhaps not in body but certainly in mind.

    There are occasions, Moriarty knows too, when it _is_ necessary to discipline Moran, to punish him, after those times when he has made some serious error and when punishing him in a controlled, measured manner is the only sure way to let Moran know that he is forgiven and to stop him from tormenting himself instead with guilt. But this is not one such time. No good can come from disciplining Moran for this. “I will _not_ punish you when you have done no wrong here.”

    “But-”

   “ _No._ Now please, eat your dinner.” Firmness is necessary when handling Moran, especially when his mood is low. Kindness will always have its place but show him too much when he is like this and that gives him room to resist and argue. Give him firm commands though and his instinct is to obey even if he does so with some resistance and sullenness, and indeed he does obey now.

    In silence he picks up his knife and fork again and slowly, methodically, cuts up his chicken, finally putting a piece of it in his mouth. Moriarty watches him as he chews and swallows before eating another piece of meat himself. The meal continues in tense silence, Moran not looking at the professor again as he eats. When both their plates are cleared he stands up, still without meeting the professor’s eye, still in silence, and puts the plates together so he may carry them to the scullery to be washed later.

    “There is a treacle pudding for dessert,” Moriarty calls after him.

    “Right sir.”

    Moriarty lets him leave the dining room and move several paces along the corridor before he sighs and with a little roll of his eyes, pushes back his chair and stands. He follows Moran into the kitchen. The broken cup is now nowhere to be seen, Moriarty having picked up the pieces and put them for disposal when the colonel was upstairs changing for dinner.

    “So you don’t trust me just to fetch some damned pudding now?” Moran enquires over his shoulder. The plates and cutlery in his hold rattle as he turns to glare at Moriarty, and briefly he debates simply throwing the lot to the ground just to see if that will be enough to provoke Moriarty into punishing him.

    “I trust you implicitly, my dove; I merely thought that you might like some assistance.” The professor, sensing Moran’s line of thought, gently but firmly takes the plates from him. One cup smashed today is quite enough.

    Moran gives him a sullen look in response, which Moriarty determinedly ignores. Only a few minutes later though something about the sight of the great Professor Moriarty standing at the stove warming a bowl of custard over a pan of hot water tugs at Moran’s heartstrings. He has been entrusted with removing the pudding from its basin and pouring extra syrup over it, a task he has set about with very little enthusiasm. But looking up and seeing Moriarty like this cannot fail to impact upon him. The stiffness seeps from his posture; some of the harsh lines in his forehead smooth out also as he ceases to frown quite so much as he regards Moriarty. It strikes him that when he first met the professor, when he first realised how dangerous the man might be, he could not even have dreamed that he would ever be here with him witnessing such a sight. Moriarty trusts him enough to show him this facet of him, an aspect of himself that might see him widely mocked in other company, he thinks, and that fact means the world. Furthermore the professor is kind to him; he cares for Moran. If then he is refusing to punish Moran then perhaps… perhaps he truly does not deserve to be punished? Moran finds this difficult to believe, but difficult is not the same thing as impossible.

    “It’s ready, sir,” he says.

    Moriarty turns and favours him with a warm smile over his shoulder. “Excellent. I think this custard is also ready.” He turns to fully face Moran. “What if we were to take it into the sitting room instead of the dining room?”

    “Sir?”

    “Be daring, Moran; the servants are not here to judge us about where we feel like taking our meals.”

    “They’ll still complain tomorrow if they finds crumbs all over the house,” Moran points out, which makes Moriarty chuckle.

    “Come on my boy,” he says, and leads the way back to the sitting room.


	18. Chapter 18

   Moran has to admit to himself, a few minutes later, that it is much nicer to be in the sitting room to eat. Although even their dining room is not excessively formal – hardly akin to some of the grand banqueting halls of much bigger houses - it is difficult to fully relax in there and perhaps that setting only exacerbated the tension between them. Here though, sitting upon the sofa, seated close to Moriarty’s side again, it is, well… _nice_ , even if the pudding is a little too sweet for his palate. He feels safer here, although suddenly a little foolish for his outburst at the dinner table.

    He watches Moriarty, upon finishing his pudding, lick syrup from his spoon, and some impish desire seizes hold of him. “Professor?” he says.

    “Hm?” Moriarty turns his head. At once Moran deftly places a blob of custard on the tip of the professor’s nose with the back of his spoon.

    “You have something on your face,” Moran says, his face the picture of perfect innocence.

   “Perhaps you should clean it off for me then,” Moriarty suggests gently, quietly pleased that Moran is showing his more playful side once more.

    “Of course sir.” Moran leans over and swipes the custard away with his tongue. As he does so Moriarty puts a hand on Moran’s hip and pulls him over to sit on top of him, which nearly causes their plates to fall to the floor. Moran though carefully sets the plates and spoons aside before resting his arms upon Moriarty’s shoulders.

    “How do you feel now?” the professor asks.

    “I’m all right.” Moran's gaze drifts downwards again momentarily and his cheeks flush a little at the recollection of his earlier behaviour.

    “Good; I am glad. Let us have no more talk then about you not being good enough. You are better than good enough. If you were not I would not have taken you on.”

    “Or you’d have had me killed,” Moran points out with a wry smile, meeting the professor’s gaze again. With any other couple this concept might seem bizarre, even frightening, but truly it amuses him. There is an odd sort of comfort to be found in the knowledge that Moriarty would have simply put him down like a rabid dog if he had found Moran lacking. Even now, when he is certain that the professor has come to care about him more privately, perhaps Moriarty might no longer have him killed but he would certainly not entrust him with so much in his illegal dealings. Considered rationally he knows then that the very fact that he is alive after all this time and remains as the professor’s right hand man and not merely as some kind of kept lover is hugely significant.

    Others might assume that the professor regards almost all of humankind with such contempt that he would gladly see great swathes of humanity obliterated – that he would be perfectly prepared to indiscriminately wipe out countless people simply from sheer disdain. Those people fail to account though for the facts that professor is not a fool, and that his general attitude towards humankind is mere indifference. He will not, if he can help it, leave trails of bodies that must be disposed of discreetly (not impossible, but it is time-consuming, expensive and itself risky to do so) or else which could lead back to him, nor will he target those who mean nothing to him. Those he has had killed are those who worked for him and failed him in some significant way, or those who crossed his path in some other manner which made their continued existence utterly intolerable to him.

    “Perhaps, once,” he agrees.

    “Did you ever consider it?” Moran asks, his expression becoming intensely serious briefly.

    “No,” Moriarty replies, meeting Moran’s gaze, idly stroking Moran’s hips with both hands as Moran straddles him. “You never gave me need to, not even once. You proved your skill and your reliability to me from the very start, and have constantly continued to do so.” He trails his hands up Moran’s back, pulling Moran closer to him. There he kisses him lightly at first, then more deeply. The kiss tastes faintly of treacle.

    He still remembers well what a dangerous creature Moran was back when they first met, so wild, so unstable, so full of pain and rage. He was obedient and diligent in his work even then but of course the colonel did not trust Moriarty then; he was expecting to be, well, if not killed, then at least discarded like a piece of litter once he had served his purpose, even after completing several tasks for the professor. Moreover he seemed unable to understand why the professor appeared to actually like him. Superficially at least they had nothing in common and Moran was evidently rather humbled by Moriarty’s academic surroundings. No doubt too he was recalling what a painful experience his own official education had been, when many of the dryly-delivered lessons bored him almost to tears and he had always been outcast from his fellow pupils.

    What a change has come about since then. Moran may still have some insecurities deep down but he has settled into this oddly domestic arrangement of theirs really rather well – better than Moriarty ever expected.

    “Did you ever truly consider killing me?” the professor asks now. He is hardly oblivious to the knowledge that he has allowed this trained and capable killer into his private life; that he has on occasion let Moran take charge of him in some of their games; that he has slept beside him at nights too many times to count. He knows too that more than once his criminal rivals have tried to bribe Moran to kill him, offering him sometimes enormous sums of money for the task – making the fatal flaw of assuming that Moran is merely Moriarty’s hired gun.

    Moran’s eyes go wide. “Of course not. You don’t seriously think I ever considered it, do you?”

    “No, my dove, I am merely making a point: as it never truly crossed your mind to end my life, it has never truly crossed mine to do the same to you.”

    Mollified by this, Moran leans forward to claim another kiss. Moriarty obliges him in this, smiling against Moran’s lips when he feels Moran begin to grow hard against his abdomen.

    “Really, chick? _Again_?”

    Moran shrugs. “I can’t help it. You have that effect on me.”

    Moriarty slips his hand around the back of Moran’s neck, tugging him into a deeper kiss which does nothing whatsoever to curtail his arousal. When things have grown even more heated though, just as Moran is thinking about unbuttoning the professor’s trousers, Moriarty puts a hand on Moran’s chest and firmly presses him back.

    “Stop.” He gently pushes Moran off his lap and Moran stands.

    “Of course.” He looks away, his eyes lowered, caught somewhere between confusion and disappointment at Moriarty’s seeming sudden change of heart.

   “Sebastian.” Moriarty takes Moran’s hand just as Moran is about to turn away entirely. “Let us move somewhere a little more comfortable, hmm?”

    Moran breaks into a grin. “Yes sir.” He lets Moriarty lead him over to the fireplace. There a tiger-skin rug lies before the hearth, a man-eater once but now it is mere ornament, its snarl is fixed; its eyes are glass.

     Standing upon the rug before the fire, Moriarty draws Moran close to him, slipping his arms around Moran’s sides. “What do you want to do, chick?”

    “Whatever you wish, sir.”

    “No, Sebastian.” Moriarty gently brushes Moran’s cheek. “I want to know what _you_ want.”

    “I want…” Moran looks down momentarily, then lifts his gaze to meet Moriarty’s. “I want you inside me, sir. I mean…” He thinks of their games of yesterday. “I want your prick inside me.”

    “We need not do that if-”

    “No sir.” Moran’s eyes are dark with lust, though Moriarty sees the reflection of the firelight within them. “I want that.”

    “Very well, pigeon.”

 


	19. Chapter 19

   This is different, Moran realises, as Moriarty begins to strip him. Between kisses he helps to work undone the various buttons and the braces of Moriarty’s clothes, as Moriarty helps Moran out of his clothing also, leaving only Moriarty’s shirt on. But often Moriarty does not kiss so much during these times; usually he works more efficiently to strip them both. This though is slower, less hurried, more focused on the languorous kissing with the removal of clothing being a secondary concern.

    When Moran is stripped entirely bare, his naked form illuminated by the fire, Moriarty kisses him again before gently pressing him down to sit on the rug.

    “Wait there,” he says. “I am going to have to fetch some oil; I will not be long.”

   Moran lies back on the rug, his head beside the tiger’s head, and watches Moriarty stroll from the room. The tails of Moriarty’s shirt still conceal much but Moran gets tantalising glimpses of the professor’s strong thighs and his buttocks as he exits. Alone then, Moran puts his arms behind his head, using his hands as a pillow temporarily. It is beautifully warm here by the fire. Still there are fears and doubts in his mind but the professor’s tenderness has pressed these back. Yes he is here by himself right now but it is warm and safe here and he believes completely now that Moriarty is coming back for him. He lies there, his left leg drawn up, foot flat to the floor, while his right leg falls naturally to the side, bent at the knee, splaying his thighs open somewhat, displaying his half-hard prick.

    When Moriarty returns he pauses in the doorway for a second or two, looking across at Moran lying there waiting patiently. The colonel is such a paradox - such a strong, feral creature, yet with so much self-doubt within him; so cocksure and domineering yet so submissive to Moriarty. Moran is, or was, so promiscuous too, seeming to be the very last person on earth capable of committing himself to just one person, and especially not to a person whose own physical urges are much less frequent than Moran’s, and yet Moran _has_ committed himself to the professor. Such a fascinating individual, Moriarty thinks, no matter how infuriating he can be at times, always so capable of surprising him and capturing the professor’s attention anew. He is not sure he will ever fully get the measure of Moran.

    He advances into the room now, noting Moran’s brief smile as he catches his eye.

   “What were you thinking about?” Moran asks.

    “How attractive you look there in the firelight,” Moriarty replies, which is not entirely an untruth. Simply because he is attracted to no-one, even Moran, quite as Moran is attracted to people, this does not mean he cannot find Moran aesthetically beautiful.

    Along with the vial of oil he has also brought an old but clean towel with him, which he lays upon the rug to Moran’s side. He also takes the blanket that lies folded up on the sofa and sets it where it will be within easy reach if required, along with a couple of cushions which he places upon the rug to use as pillows. He kneels beside Moran, who rolls over slightly to meet him but then hesitates, wanting Moriarty to remain in control here.

    Moriarty smiles at him and begins to unbutton his own shirt.

    Moran’s eyes widen slightly. “Sir?”

    “Help me with these buttons, would you? It is far too warm here to keep this on.”

    Still though Moran is perplexed by this. Moriarty has often kept his shirt on while coupling with him even at the height of summer, but he is not going to protest at this new development. “Yes sir.” He moves quickly to undo the lower buttons of Moriarty’s shirt, then when all are undone to push it back, to get Moriarty’s arms free of it, to remove it entirely.

    Moriarty hurriedly pulls his undershirt off over his head, discarding this, and now kneels there completely naked before Moran. Moran cannot help but run an approving eye over the professor’s body, drinking in the sight of him, his pale skin; the lines of his body, going a little softer now with age and a fondness for sweet things; his prick resting in its nest of auburn hair, presently still soft and relaxed. Still strong, the professor is not so lean and muscular as he was in his youth or as Moran still is but, _Christ_ , Moran thinks, _he is so lovely_. And then on the tail of that comes his concern of earlier: _Why does he want me?_

   But then Moriarty moves over him, pushing Moran onto his back, pressing his mouth to Moran’s once more, and Moran’s doubts retreat back to the shadows. The professor has chosen _him_ \- and only him - to share real intimacy with. Moran does not fully understand why but still Moriarty has done it nonetheless and Moriarty never does anything without good reason.

     Though submissive to the professor, Moran ceases to be passive. He kisses back eagerly while he reaches up for Moriarty, stroking his hands over his body, wanting to touch and caress every inch of his bare skin, something that is so often denied to him. He runs his hands down Moriarty’s back, to his buttocks, then back up. For some minutes he does not even concern himself with Moriarty’s cock, only with touching the rest of him, although as they press together, their mouths still joined, both of them are growing fully hard. Moriarty thrusts slowly now against Moran’s inner thighs, increasing the physical stimulation against his length. Growing more eager, more desperate, Moran bucks up against him, his stiff cock pressing against Moriarty’s stomach.

    “Professor,” he breathes, between kisses. “ _Please…_ ”

    Moriarty pauses, crouched over Moran still, and he looks into Moran’s eyes and sees so much desire, so much longing, so much… _emotion_. Once the thought of someone looking at him so would have made him sneer with contempt at such foolishness but now… now he feels that nearly painful surge of pleasure in his chest, in his _heart,_ at the intensity of Moran’s regard for him. It is wonderful too for him to realise that he and he alone has succeeded in taming this wild tiger, gaining his trust and loyalty and absolute devotion. Yes, he does not forget that to care for someone so provides a vulnerable point that may be exploited by others, but there is also such a feeling of power – he has the power to make or break Moran; he could not merely kill him but he could rip his lover’s heart into shreds; he could break his will; he could _destroy_ him far more thoroughly than by merely slitting his throat or putting a bullet through his brain. That knowledge enlivens him; it intoxicates him, even, making him feel a little bit giddy with excitement in times like this – to know that he _could_ destroy Moran, and yet simultaneously that he never will.

    He guides Moran into his desired position, manoeuvring him to lie on his side facing the flames. He feels tension for a moment as Moran fails to grasp immediately what Moriarty is doing. These days Moran prefers to be taken on his back, feeling the weight of Moriarty’s body atop his and liking how this may enable him to snatch kisses, but that is an inelegant and rather awkward position and Moriarty is mindful too that Moran’s backside may still be a little sore from their games of yesterday. Putting him on his side then will be more comfortable, more relaxed, and also allow for much greater skin to skin contact. When Moran does realise this last point he ceases resisting and melts into the professor’s embrace as Moriarty moulds himself to Moran’s bare back. They cannot easily kiss like this but still Moriarty does kiss the back of Moran’s neck and his shoulder, brief kisses that do little directly for Moriarty but that give him satisfaction nonetheless for their symbolic value – he kisses Moran because Moran is _his_ – and for how Moran responds to them, with soft moans of pleasure.

    Moran’s reaction heightens when Moriarty begins to slowly spread the oil between his buttocks, working it within him. The colonel groans thickly, his eyes screwing shut as the professor works one finger, two, within him. He twists his head around and buries his face in the tiger’s fur as he is so very carefully stretched and opened up.

    “ _James_ ,” he breathes, almost soundless, and his gasp as Moriarty guides the head of his arousal into Moran is nearly soundless too.

    “My good boy,” Moriarty says against Moran’s neck as he sheathes himself within his lover. “My good, sweet Sebastian.” So warm, so willing, so accommodating. Moriarty too cannot help emitting a soft groan of pleasure as he slides fully inside Moran. With a hand on the colonel’s hip he pulls Moran tight against himself, so that they are pressed together for almost the entire length of their bodies, bare flesh against bare flesh, and he slowly thrusts within Moran. He slides his hand around after a few seconds to take Moran’s prick and stroke it from root to tip, then back. Moran bucks into his hand at once, gasping sharply,

    “Professor!” he cries as Moriarty slowly pumps his cock in time with his own thrusts.

    Time seems to stretch out and become meaningless as Moriarty takes Moran, angling his hips to best stimulate Moran internally. They could have been here for five minutes or five hours, both of them forget to know or care which. There is nothing but the two of them locked together, Moriarty’s hand on Moran’s cock, Moran’s body around Moriarty’s cock. The fire combined with their physical exertions heats them, making sweat break out on their skin and trickle down the hollow of Moran’s back, down almost to where he is joined with the professor.

    Words too cease to become important, devolving into near-animalistic grunts and groans of pleasure as they get nearer, and nearer, and nearer to the edge. With the increase in the speed of his thrusting inside Moran, so too does Moriarty increase the movements of his hand upon Moran’s prick. He almost forgets to remember why it is important to him but he knows still that he wants Moran to finish first; that it is of vital importance to him that Moran be allowed to spend ahead of him this time.

    Moran lets out breathy moans into the tiger’s fur, gasping with each slick press of Moriarty’s cock within him; with each stroke of his own arousal, panting as he is pushed and pulled to the verge of climax. Moriarty feels Moran tensing around him, notes the telltale clenching of his muscles as he reaches the very brink of completion, before Moran emits a sharp, strangled cry as with another long caress of his cock he comes hard, spurting onto the towel. 

    “My good boy, good boy,” Moriarty soothes, still stroking Moran’s prick, milking out every last drop, working him through his orgasm until Moran is fully spent, his breath sobbing. “Good boy, good…” His words trailing off again as he thrusts desperately now into Moran again and again, his thrusting becoming shallower but faster the closer he gets until finally he too tenses, stills, and with a long, low moan against the back of Moran’s neck he comes deep inside his lover.


	20. Chapter 20

   Moriarty stays still for some seconds after he has finished spilling inside Moran, still clutching the colonel tightly to his chest. Only when he can begin to get his breathing under control does he loosen his grasp a little.

    “Professor?” Moran says, his voice faint and cracking slightly.

    “It’s all right.” Moriarty lightly kisses Moran’s neck. Is it Moran or himself though he is trying to convince with these words? He is not sure. With every shared orgasm now he feels increasingly that something profound is being pulled out of him, something much greater than the fluid he spurts inside Moran, a small but hugely significant part of himself being drawn out of him and into Moran, tangling and binding the pair of them ever tighter together.

     He reaches for Moran’s hand, threading his fingers through the colonel’s. He too finds something comforting about the skin to skin contact. Perhaps it makes him feel that no matter what he pays out when he spends, no matter how vulnerable it makes him for a moment, he is safe with Moran; that whatever he gives away is reciprocated; that it is paid back perhaps not in kind (for still he doubts that he can ever care for Moran precisely as Moran cares for him) but still in full; that though he gives away much of himself to Moran it all balances out in what Moran gives to him. In the end Moriarty is not something less for putting himself in this position. If anything he usually feels stronger than ever afterwards, more invigorated, more ready to take on the world with his colonel by his side.

     For a while he simply holds Moran and neither of them says anything more, letting the crackle of the flames fill in the silence. Only after a few minutes, as the sweat begins to cool on their bodies and the other physical reminders of their actions begin to grow too uncomfortable, does Moriarty finally move. He takes the towel and wipes off the worst of the mess from them both. Moran seems so sated and sleepy, it would be a great shame to force him to move in order to go and bathe now.

    “James,” Moran murmurs as he feels Moriarty move behind him.

    “Shhh, it’s all right my dove, you may sleep.” Moriarty tosses the towel aside out of the way to be dealt with later and once more draws Moran into his embrace.

    Moran though, although drowsy, does not sleep. He only cuddles contentedly into the professor’s hold, at one point glancing around to smile back at Moriarty.

    “Shouldn’t I go and wash the dinner plates?” he asks.

    “Leave it; they can wait.”

    Moran settles again, although still not quite dozing off, stirring again when Moriarty says softly:

    “Sebastian, I have been thinking of something we referred to yesterday.”

    “What’s that?”

    “Marriage, my dove.”

    “What about it?”

    Moriarty presses a light kiss to Moran’s shoulder. “I would marry you if I could, if that was what you wanted.” He half expects Moran to go still and silent, or to quickly deny that this is what he could ever want.

    Moran though laughs, which is pleasant in its own way – after the darkness of Moran’s earlier mood it is so good to hear him sound so amused. But evidently he thinks the professor is simply being good-natured and joking. “Don’t be daft.”

    “You think I speak in jest.”

    “Of course.”

    “I am being serious.”

    Moran twists his head around to regard Moriarty. “Why would you want to marry me?”

    “It has a certain symbolic appeal, does it not? Proof in the eyes of the law and the wider world that you are mine.” Moriarty grins then. “And perhaps also it would stop those insufferable busybodies one tends to encounter at every social function who insist on trying to find me a lovely wife.”

   Moran chuckles. “Aye, I suppose it would do that.” He settles his head back against the cushion.

   “So… would you want to?” Moriarty asks, trailing his fingers idly over Moran’s stomach. “If we could?”

    “Marry you?”

    “Mm.”

    Moran glances over his shoulder again. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

   “I said so, did I not?”

    “What would you want me to do? Take your name and be like some obedient dutiful wife?”

    “I would expect no more of you than you already give me. I would not try to turn you into my housekeeper or make you permanently wear a dress or some such nonsense, and I could hardly expect you to bear me children.”

    Moran laughs softly again. “I didn’t think you’d approve of marriage though.”

    “I approve of anything that may serve a useful purpose to me.”

    “And marrying me would do that how?”

    “If it proved to you the extent of my regard for you; if it gave you the sense of security you crave and demonstrated to the world that you are mine... then it is useful.”

   “Hm,” says Moran, and Moriarty feels him tense momentarily, hears him swallow too and sees him open his mouth as if to say more, but then he closes it again. Some seconds pass before he speaks again, and what he says is perhaps not what he truly wants to say. “It’s irrelevant though, isn’t it? We can’t marry.”

    “Mm, of course not.” Moriarty closes his eyes and nestles his face tighter into the space between Moran’s neck and shoulder. “Anyway… though I have never been married and have never had any desire to take a wife, you remain the closest thing I have ever had to one, or, I suppose, to a husband. My common-law husband.” He laughs quietly, his breath tickling Moran’s skin. “Though of course there is nothing common about you; you are a rare prize indeed.” Here he notes Moran’s little intake of breath. “There are many couples, are there not, who regard themselves as man and wife without ever troubling to put a legal stamp upon their marriage?”

    “I suppose so, yes.”

    “Thus marriage is perhaps a state of mind as much as a ceremony and some writing on a bit of paper.”

    “Professor…” Moran twists around suddenly in Moriarty’s embrace, needing to look him directly in the eyes now. “I fear I am being mocked somehow now.”

    “No, pet.” Moriarty cups Moran’s face and runs his thumb gently over Moran’s cheekbone. “I speak in earnest.”

    “Then I fear you have lost your mind, or else… I have.”

    “We are both perfectly sane, Moran. I am simply speaking freely now.”

     “But you cannot seriously regard us as…”

     “Married? Why can I not? You have committed yourself to me, forsaking all others save for those brief dalliances with others that I have permitted. You have shown more loyalty and devotion to me than many men demonstrate towards their wives and I myself would want no other. Oh pet.” He strokes Moran’s cheek still as he looks away. “Does the idea of being married to me truly disconcert you so?”

    Moran clenches his jaw and shuts his eyes tightly, then he shakes his head. “No,” he whispers finally, his voice strained, as if he has to force it out quickly before he changes his mind. “No, I want…” At last he dares to open his eyes and dart his gaze up to meet Moriarty's. “I want you, James.”

    “And you have me, my dove.” Moriarty smiles warmly. “Kiss me, Sebastian.”

    Moran tilts his head and presses his lips to Moriarty’s. Such a tender, chaste kiss now but it says as much, perhaps even more, than their other rougher, more passionate kisses.

    Moran knows that throughout this strange conversation there is one word that has not been spoken of, one word that still lurks beneath the surface, like a bubble of air trapped under ice unable to break free. _Love._ Moriarty may speak of marriage and make Moran admit that yes, they are married in all but name, but love has not been spoken of. Of course he is aware that many legal marriages are forged because of convenience or money, to cement ties between families, to unite two businesses, or for whatever other purposes there may be that do not remotely involve that tricky and elusive thing known as _love_.

     Once Moran believed he was wholly incapable of experiencing deep love for another person – oh he loved his mother; he loved and indeed does still love Kitty Winter; he loves danger and the thrill of the hunt (though no longer hunting tigers, but men); he even loves the tigers, those beautiful but deadly creatures that still even now stalk his dreams, but there are many forms of love and he always thought that deep romantic love was something he could not feel. Indeed he used to react with scorn to the soldiers who spoke in glowing terms of their sweethearts, who dreamed of one day returning to them and setting up a home and family with them. Then he met Professor James Moriarty, and deep down he knew that things had changed.

    Moriarty though does not speak of love, nor can Moran yet say it in return. Still he thinks that if Moriarty actually ever said to him _‘I love you’_ it would be too much, and he would have to run. If ever the word does break through then perhaps he fears like the bubble of air pushing up through cracks in the ice at last that it will dissipate and vanish and be lost. To reduce certain things to mere words might irrevocably spoil everything. But he looks into Moriarty’s eyes now and knows that there is no need to speak such words; there is no need to pin a label to it any more than there is a real need to have their names on a marriage certificate. No one word can do justice to what they feel for each other.

    Now they are no longer exerting themselves a slight chill descends over the pair, even with the fire still going. Moriarty reaches across and snags the blanket, pulling it over them, wrapping them both in it. So, curled tightly together beneath the blanket, the pair allow the warmth of each other’s bodies and the soft crackling of the fire to lull them to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

   Moran stirs when he feels Moriarty shift beside him. “Professor?” He opens one eye, noticing through a slight chink in the curtains that it is barely light outside. Behind him the fire has burnt down to mere glowing embers.

    “Shh, go back to sleep.” Moriarty carefully tucks the blanket around him. “It’s early yet.”

   “Where are you…?”

    “To answer the call of nature; do not trouble yourself.” Moriarty lightly strokes Moran’s cheek, watching with satisfaction as Moran closes his eye again under the touch. “Sleep, pet.”

 

   The next thing Moran knows is when he sits up, noticing it is now nearly broad daylight outside. The fire is completely dead in the hearth and the space beside him on the rug remains empty. He stands up, pulling the blanket around himself, and pads barefoot across the room. Just then he hears footsteps in the corridor and Moriarty approaches, carrying a laden tray with a silver pot, cups, plates, and something under a covered dish.

   “Ah you are awake, good.” The professor carries the tray past Moran and sets it down on the table. He is fully and neatly dressed in one of his dark suits, Moran observes, with his hair slicked back.

   Moran shuffles after him, noticing now that Moriarty has brought the coffee pot, not the tea pot.

   “I thought you might like some coffee this morning,” Moriarty remarks when he notes Moran’s glance at the pot. “Now I’m afraid I did not have time to cook anything properly seeing as I suspected you might awaken very shortly.” He carefully pours the coffee into the two cups. “I made plenty of buttered toast though, and here, there is marmalade, or jam.” He indicates the little dishes of both preserves.

   “Thank you sir.” Feeling slightly dazed, Moran sits down on the edge of the sofa and pulls the blanket more tightly around him. “But, shouldn’t I be doing this?”

   “I wanted to do it for you this morning.” Moriarty turns and gives him a small smile. This should seem so incongruous, Moran thinks – the slicked back hair, the rather severe suit, but with Moriarty behaving kindly, bringing him breakfast not quite in bed, but close to it. Yet somehow it seems, after everything that has occurred this past weekend, to be perfectly apt, to see this combination of domesticity and compassion in conjunction with the austere front the professor presents.

   Moran dips his head, feeling slightly humbled and more than a bit touched by Moriarty’s behaviour. “Thank you, Professor,” he says. Perhaps it is not thanks though merely for the coffee and toast but for everything, and perhaps, to judge by the way Moriarty catches his eye and holds his gaze just for a second or two, Moriarty knows this too.

   “You are welcome, Moran,” he says. “Now come and eat some toast before it all goes stone cold.”

 

   Today is different, Moran thinks as he munches a piece of toast and marmalade, the start of a new week but not only that, the day the servants return, and with them some greater sense of normality. And yet… when he looks at Moriarty again he understands that something has shifted between them, subtly but powerfully, drawing them ever closer together, and things may never be quite so normal again. Thinking upon this though this notion does not frighten him as it might have done yesterday in the depths of the dark mood that seized him. He is not normal, no, but then neither is Professor Moriarty. Perhaps others may judge them to be sinful and wicked and depraved and perhaps they may be all of these things but then they are something else too: they are  _together_. Moran was a wild tiger once, but the professor tamed him; made him his, but then also Moriarty was deemed inhuman, more a machine than a man, so has not Moran also, in some sense, tamed him too? And now they complement each other with their wickedness and depravity; they fit together, as perhaps neither of them could ever fit with another – the two most dangerous men in London. 

   Moran chuckles to himself as he sips his coffee, amused by a sudden realisation.

   “What precisely, Sebastian, is so amusing?” Moriarty enquires with an arched eyebrow.

   “Nothing. I just thought, after what you said last night, that we are…”

   “What?”

   “You won’t mock me if I say?”

   “I will not.”

   Moran grins. “Criminal husbands.”

   Moriarty ponders this briefly before breaking into a smile himself. “Yes,” he says, eyes sparkling with delight. “That is fitting.” He reaches and takes Moran’s free hand, squeezing it gently before lifting it to his lips to kiss it. “That is very fitting indeed.”


	22. Epilogue

   Monday evening; dinner tonight has been cooked by their housekeeper; the dishes are being washed by the maid in the scullery. The more usual routine has settled upon the household after the return of the servants in the early afternoon, bringing with it a greater sense of formality and perhaps even – despite the servants’ general open-mindedness about some of their masters’ behaviour – a certain degree of rigidity. The staff’s tolerance would only extend so far before they would start objecting or at least questioning their loyalty to the professor and the colonel. However…

    Moran regards the professor through the haze of smoke produced by their after-dinner cigars, until Moriarty glances across from his perusal of the evening paper.

    “Something wrong, Sebastian?”

    “No sir.” Moran grins around the cigar clamped between his teeth as he turns over a page of his own newspaper. “Nothing’s wrong.”

    It is not that relaxing with the professor after dinner is unusual – it is not. Even in the earlier days of their association, before their relationship took a more _intimate_ turn, they would still often sit in the same room and read and relax after their meal, or perhaps make idle conversation on various more trivial topics than those which occupied their other time, often then accompanied by a little tipple or a decent cigar. The only things that really changed in that regard with the evolution of their relationship was their tendency to sit rather closer together generally (or even for Moran to sit atop Moriarty sometimes, or occasionally to use the professor’s lap as a pillow) and for some of their after-dinner brandy, cigars and conversations to lead to (or sometimes be replaced by) amorous congress.

    But this still feels somehow _different_ to the norm, even knowing now that the servants are elsewhere in the house and thus he and the professor must be somewhat more restrained about their activities than they were over the weekend. Moran cannot put his finger on precisely _how_ it has changed – it has perhaps altered so subtly that it defies all attempts to analyse it – but still he feels it: this lightness of the mood between them, yet simultaneously this profound sense of the bond between himself and Moriarty; a sense of a secret shared between them, but a pleasant one, not a dirty secret nor a guilty one. He did fear, albeit briefly, that once the live-in staff returned that this feeling might be snuffed out like a candle flame after all and yet still it remains.

     Of course he still recalls his concerns of yesterday – that he is not good enough; that he is wrong; that the professor deserves better than him. These fears have retreated but still they have not dissipated entirely. Perhaps they never will quite manage to disappear completely, but they have been pushed back again, pressed down enough so that Moran can once more feel contented, even happy, with the professor, secure in the knowledge that he is cared for and cherished in this state of odd domestic bliss they have attained together.

     _Criminal husbands_ , he thinks, grinning to himself, and he cannot help but notice out of the corner of his eye that the professor also smiles slightly as he returns his gaze to the paper. Moriarty’s thoughts are, it seems, running along similar lines.

    This is not the kind of life – by the professor’s side; committed to him; as close to him indeed as a husband (if not closer) and, well, _tamed_ by him, even - Moran ever planned for. It is not even anywhere remotely near where he thought he would end up but is there something wrong with that? No. As he says, nothing’s wrong. In fact, he decides with a further exultant smile, everything is just about… _perfect_.


End file.
